


No One Would Riot For Less

by narukyu



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Fix-it fic, Gilded Cages, Godstiel: Cas as God, Helpful Tricksters Are Not Helpful, Language, M/M, Mindfuck, Religious Themes & References, Sabriel Minibang, Selective Amnesia, Slash, Temporary Character Deaths, The End Is Nigh, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-14
Updated: 2011-10-14
Packaged: 2017-10-24 15:23:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 28
Words: 70,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/265006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narukyu/pseuds/narukyu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Family reunions are a time of fun and good eating, or so Dean thinks. He plans on making this year's reunion the best one yet, and he even got Sam to stop bitching long enough to drive back home and help. Sure, Cas is acting a little weird—donning the old trench coat like a lame ass caped crusader—but there's nothing wrong between the two of them. <em>Ever.</em> So don't even start.</p><p>Sam, on the other hand, isn't feeling quite so content. He's dealing with a concussion or an out of body experience or something, because everything around him feels just wrong, from the tie around his neck to the shocking presence of Jess in his life. His confusion is only heightened by increasingly cryptic texts from a contact he's saved as 'Loki'--a contact that he doesn't remember making. Loki seems to hold all the answers, including the answer to one disturbing question Sam can't quite let go of--why does he think most of their family and friends should be long dead and buried?</p><p>Dean's belligerently happy. Sam's genuinely confused. But to everyone else, life is just perfect.</p><p>Maybe a little <em>too</em> perfect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: No One Would Riot For Less  
> Word Count: ~70K  
> Genre: slash  
> Pairing: Sam/Gabriel, Dean/Cas; mentions past Sam/Jess, Dean/Lisa, Gabriel/Kali  
> Rating: R  
> Warnings: slash, violence, language, sex, temporary character deaths, vague talk of torture, false idols, blasphemy, apocalypse is nigh, a Trickster's idea of 'help', unreliable narrators, unhelpful time-lines, angst, selectively enforced amnesia, elements of dubious consent, 6X22, fix-it fic, etc.
> 
> Much thanks to lunaloup for betaing! Any remaining errors are mine.

\-----

 

Chapter One

 

\-----

 

Sam fell.

Later, Sam would think that maybe he hadn't _fallen_ so much as he'd _landed_ , both feet planted on the ground and the world spiraling mercilessly all around him. At the moment, though, he only knew confusion. A massive headache and a racing heartbeat took center stage, clamoring for his full attention.

Beyond that, though, he was aware of one thing.

Something just... wasn't _right_.

That was pretty much the extent of his thoughts for a while. He couldn't bear to focus any further—couldn't even in general. Images flashed without meaning before his eyes. Sound buzzed and screeched and rattled in his ears. He was shaking and sweating, only upright through some miracle of God.

Sam smothered his face with his hands. He didn't know if he'd waken up from a nightmare or was coming down from some kind of drug or if he'd fallen and hit his head. But what he did know was that everything hurt everywhere, and that his brain felt like it was leaking out one of his ears—and that, of course, something was way, way off.

But most of that was just pain and confusion. The worst feeling of it all was the dizziness, the sudden loss of his equilibrium. He felt like he was clinging to the edge of a gigantic, spinning top, and it wasn't slowing down. Force pulled at him greedily, dragging him ever closer to oblivion, and it didn't care if it took him whole or in pieces.

He adjusted, mostly through will alone. When his body had calmed down a bit, he dared to open his eyes. He couldn't see—or maybe he could. Great swatches of images—fire and forests and cars--flickered through his vision, rendering everything else to pure obscurity. They flashed in time with his heartbeat, a second too late after his gasping, gulping breathes.

Worst thing about that? He knew he wasn't seeing a damn thing—not yet, anyway. All those images were in his head. It was then that Sam knew that something was very wrong, and that this something was, as always, an unknown menace he would have to face—with or without help.

And Sam suddenly had a sick feeling that he was all too alone.

And then Sam heard it—a little burst of sound, faint as if from the other end of a tunnel. It cut through the other sensations like a hot knife through butter, somehow more poignant than anything else.

He palmed his pocket reflexively—and then twice more as his hand refused to bend. Finally, clumsily, his fingers delved in the fold of his jeans, curling around a hunk of plastic—his cell phone. The grip was hard to sustain and, once free of his pants, it almost fell to the floor despite his best attempts. Manipulating a limb that might as well have been a limp noodle with sausages at the end, he nevertheless managed to flick the phone open and press it to his ear.

He mumbled a 'hello' or a 'who?' or maybe even nothing at all. His mouth felt like a sodden, wet thing that could hardly be manipulated.

"Sammy," the person on the other end said warmly. Sam could have just flopped to the floor just then, because that voice was _Dean_.

And then, just like that, his body started working again. He blinked away patches of white and magenta—why was he so damn dizzy?—and leaned against the closest thing—cool refrigerator glass. He was shaking, his free hand trembling where he held it up in front of his face, but his fingers were responding again, curling and uncurling at his command.

He could freaking _see_.

Dean's voice rose again, this time concerned. "Sammy?"

"Don't call me that," Sam mumbled. The world slowly started to right itself—dizziness disappearing, shakiness ebbing away, reality reasserting itself. He felt like he always thought people with a fear of heights felt when removed from the clutch of their nemesis—vaguely nauseous, desperately relieved, and rather like they had just awoken from a bad nightmare.

Jesus Christ. Had he just been _hallucinating_?

"What's wrong?"

Sam sluggishly flattened his fingers over his forehead, feeling along the sweaty skin. "Think I hit my head." Or something. It didn't feel right—that he didn't know where he was, that he'd feel so physically bad. Maybe he concussed himself? He started prodded his own head, looking for tender places.

Dean sucked in a breath. Sam knew his brother was struggling—how should he react? Should he react with the more genuine concern he was feeling, or should he make fun of Sam for being a klutz? Sam snorted.

Now that he thought about it, he was liking the concussion idea. Even if he couldn't find one single place on his head that hurt more than the others, he was feeling kinda woozy, like he'd head butted a wall or something equally as stupid.

In the end, Sam didn't let Dean decide how to react. "Shut up, jerk," Sam said preemptively, turning his head. His cheek pressed up against cool glass. "I'm fine."

"Yeah, well…" Dean cleared his throat. He sounded uncomfortable—emotionally constipated, some would call it. "Is there a reason why you stopped? Or did your girly foot get a cramp from stepping on the gas?"

"Eat me." Sam could see himself reflected in the glass, a transparent echo of him hovering over the endless lines of drinks. He looked exhausted.

Sam turned his head cautiously, squinting at his surroundings through a still hazy vision. He was in one of those crappy little gas station shops with the low shelves and the slightly musty odor. Once white surfaces now were an aged yellow. The light above flickered every once in a while, humming noisily and, in the middle of the store, neatly cutting the space in half, was a table with a stuffed raccoon on it. The dead thing was poised to do harm, standing up on its back legs with one clawed paw raised slightly higher than the other. A fine layer of dust coated its fur.

Where the _hell_ was he? Sam moved forward, edging around the dead animal cautiously.

He found and dismissed the cashier immediately—the other male had his boots up on the counter and a cowboy hat over his face. Deep, painful snores issued from underneath it. Sam's mouth twisted in self-deprecation. He was not a man who'd appreciate being woken up just to solve the mystery of what Big Foot bumped his head in.

"Dude. You want me to pick you up or something?"

Sam sighed, raking a hand through his hair. "No, just... give me a second to get my bearings." He paced up and down the candy aisle for lack of anything to do, and then blurted out, "So. Where am I going, again?"

There was a lengthy pause on the other hand. "Home."

"And where is that, exactly?"

There was a complicated sort of noise on the other end of the line, and then Dean was saying, "That's it. I'm coming to get you."

"No no no. I'm fine. _Great_ , actually."

"I don't want you behind the wheel." Dean expelled a loud, frustrated sound right into the speaker. "You know what? Fine, I won't get you, you moron. But don't be stupid. Pry your possessive, grubby little fingers off the wheel and let Jess drive for a change, hm?"

That stopped Sam cold. He couldn't believe- how could Dean _say_ -

Sam swallowed harshly, pressing his free hand against his forehead. "What did you just say?" he said hoarsely.

" _Jess_ can drive _too_ ," Dean said in clipped tones. He made a tsking noise. "Wow, you're not on the ball today, Mr. Hotshot Lawyer."

There were words coming out of the phone, but Sam... Sam couldn't have been comprehending them right. Nevertheless, he found himself suddenly pulling at a tie—expensive and neat with a pin—that hung over a pressed, white shirt with tiny, round buttons. He had a heavy, silver watch on his right wrist that screamed gift—or bribe—and the tips of his fingers were rounded and, dare he think it, _polished_.

Sam couldn't have been more surprised even if he'd 'woken' up here dressed in a prom dress. _With sequins_

Sam's next breath came out explosively. He tucked his free hand in his pocket and clenched his eyes shut. "Yeah, okay." Oh, God. He didn't even want to _think_ anymore.

"Okay?" Dean sounded dubious. "How badly did you scramble your brains, Sammy?" He tried to laugh and make it a joke, but he sounded strained to Sam's expert ears.

"I was... exaggerating," Sam said recklessly. He opened his eyes a crack and sort of regretted it. His shoes were shiny—like obsidian, but in leather. _Jesus Christ._ "I know where we are, I know where we're going." God. _We_.

"You sure?"

"Absolutely," Sam lied.

"Okay, I believe you."

Sam let out a low breath of relief and then... suddenly, he knew where they were. Where they were _going_. How they were getting there. The missing info, it was all just suddenly... there. And Sam, well, he didn't know whether to be massively relieved or gravely concerned—because people didn't just lose that shit and remember it like that.

Right?

Words rushed out of him. "We're still about another three hours out." That was what he was doing. He was driving to Dean's house for the annual family reunion. Dean started to criticize his driving a bit, mostly because he was a big brother and a dick, and because he could. Sam mostly tuned him out, letting Dean's familiar voice wash over him.

He might have remembered what he was doing, but there were still _gaps_. Massive, massive holes. Hell if he could remember what he was going before the road trip—where he was coming from, for instance, or what he did when he wasn't going to Dean's. He kept on drawing blanks on damn near everything.

Dean's taunt— _Mr. Hotshot Lawyer_ —popped up briefly in his head, but... he hadn't finished. He'd stopped. He swore he did. And he stopped because of what happened that night—that night with the fire and _Jess_.

Jess, who was apparently in his car and ready to take over driving duties.

He endured another minute of Dean complaining about his 'slow ass, granny driving' before interrupting. "How are the preparations going?" Dean just needed to shut up _now_ about his driving, thank you very much. Sam scowled.

On the other end, Dean paused. A few seconds ticked by before he said, somewhat ashamed, but mostly impressed, "I almost hit my hair on fire."

Sam barked out a laugh, feeling the tight grip over his throat finally, finally loosen. Okay, spotty memory, conflicting time lines, whatever. At least Dean was still _Dean_.

Sam grinned. "Not quite Emeril, are you?"

"Bite me. I like to think of myself more of a, I don't know, Rachael Ray…"

"Should I warn Jess to check the food for bits of human?" Sam froze. He couldn't believe what just came out of his mouth. Jess? _Jess_? Since when was he taking her presence for granted?

Dean was equally as startled, but for different reasons. "What? Gross, no. I don't serve soylent green at my house, asshole."

Sam barely heard him. He was too busy stumbling away from the aisles and to the store front.

The front lined with windows, all of which showed slices of images of the outside. Gas pumps and cars stretched out from one end to the other. Around one car, blond hair bounced up and down in time with brisk footsteps before ducking out of sight entirely. _Jess._ Just like Dean said.

Sam stared. _Impossible._

Dean's voice was wary. "Sam? You spacing out on me again?"

Sam blinked rapidly and turned back to the row of refrigerators. "Sorry, just…" _Jess_ , he thought. Her name provoked a long litany of feelings in him—sorrow, rage, helplessness.

It was impossible, her being here. He knew it like he knew his name. It was impossible, she was impossible, because... because-

Frustrated, defeated by a memory that could only feebly scrabble at straw, he growled to himself and closed his eyes. He didn't know why Jess shouldn't have been there. He couldn't have explained it to anyone else, not even to save his life. But he knew it. It was fact, it was reality, and now the opposite of reality—unreality—was sitting in his car, waiting for him to come back.

Sam swallowed hard. _Shit._

There was nothing else he could do but walk outside, so he did.

He remembered Dean only vaguely. "Long drive," Sam said finally, weakly into the cell. His hand shook on the handle of the door as he yanked it open. His head hurt.

"All that way from California." Dean whistled. Then, with guilt heavy in his voice, he said, "Maybe you shoulda took a plane."

"And have you wring your hands in maternal concern? Dude, no. That would be traumatizing for the both of us, you freak," Sam said distantly. "Besides, I like driving."

His car. He focused on his car. It was a brown Sedan with nothing extraordinary about it. Sam had a sinking feeling he'd bought it for practical reasons.

He was stalling. Like a _coward_.

"We can expect you soon?"

Another _we_ , and Sam had the feeling it wasn't the royal one. He bit his lip and said, "Sure. Just gotta fill up the tank and we'll be on the road again." A thought occurred to Sam. "Hey, how'd you know we stopped?"

There was a long pause on Dean's end. It was sort of gratifying to not be the one scrambling for answers now.

"I'm Batman," Dean said finally.

Sam snorted. "You wish." His hand tightened on the phone. "Gotta go, Dean."

"Yeah, okay. Drive safe."

Sam flipped his phone shut, still hesitating, still dreading the inevitable. Then, annoyed with himself, he finally slid through the driver side door and into his seat.

It took much more guts than he ever imagined to yank his eyes away from the steering wheel to meet the gaze of a person he knew he hadn't seen in a long, long time. But he did it anyway, because even unreality demanded acknowledgment.

"Hey, Jess."

Jess smiled back at him. "Hey yourself."


	2. Chapter 2

\-----

 

Chapter Two

 

\-----

 

Dean hated the quiet. _Despised_ it. He did everything he could to break the silence. Even now, the radio on the counter rattled weirdly echoing noise back and forth between the tiled walls, seemingly louder in the small bathroom than it had been ten minutes ago in the kitchen. Rock music ripped through the air. _Nice_.

Pleased with this, Dean hummed along with the music, sliding shampoo through his hair while wondering when such a routine thing started feeling like a luxury.

He stuck his head under the spray of water just as the radio started on a familiar song. He smiled, mumbling mostly forgotten words under his breath, then stopped, wondering why he was trying to be quiet.

Fuck it, he decided as the song climbed to the infectious chorus. He was alone in the house. Who was gonna hear?

"It was the _heat of the moment_ ," he belted out cheerfully, paying no mind to tone or pitch. He used a bar of soap as a microphone. "Telling me what my heart meant! The heat of the moment showed in your eyes-"

The lyrics froze in his throat when the radio suddenly spewed angry static, slicing through Asia with extreme prejudice. The soap slipped out of his hand, sliding through his fingers before hitting the floor with a muffled thud.

And then Dean heard something else under the static—something fainter but familiar, like something fluttering. His heart started racing, pounding like a drum in his chest.

He wasn't alone anymore. He wasn't _safe_.

Dean instinctively grasped for a weapon—which was stupid, because, in the shower? Sure, Head and Shoulders to the rescue! So he clenched his fists quietly and ripped back his murky shower curtain, prepared to defend himself with the righteous fury of startled naked guys everywhere.

But nothing could have prepared him for the sheer shock of relief that crashed over him when he realized who the 'intruder' was. His knees went weak and he stumbled back against the furthest wall, laughing. He flattened a hand over his chest, feeling his heart continue to race.

"Jesus _Christ_ , Cas." Dean spared a moment to wonder why the door hadn't creaked, and then Castiel was looking at him, at least twenty different types of intense, his stance wide and unyielding. The steam from Dean's shower curled around him, thwarted.

Dean's snickering died down. Aware that he was missing something, he sort of teetered on one foot and went quiet, staring at Cas. Then Castiel's eyes dropped inevitably downward, his eyes following the path of dripping shampoo and shower water.

Dean froze for half a second, then cleared his throat importantly. Castiel's eyes jumped straight up to his and Dean, because he was a bit of a dick at some times and really desperate at others, relaxed his shoulders, shooting the uptight man his best sultry look.

"Did you want to come in?"

Castiel stared at him with the biggest eyes. He looked all of twelve for a moment, and then he coughed, pulling at his tie. "I will be outside."

He promptly pivoted on his foot and left, his coat flying behind him. Dean winced as the door shrieked bloody murder—stupid hinges. He needed to fix that.

The radio settled back into normal broadcasting without a single hint of the previous interference—but no more Asia.

Dean sighed at the lost opportunity, washing the rest of the soap off carelessly. His mind kept on going back to Castiel's reaction—you would have thought the guy was a virgin or something.

Dean smirked. It wasn't really fair to mess with Cas after he came home from bible camp. Too preoccupied with Sin and Salvation and whole bunch of other things with capital letters, _that_ Castiel was even more uptight than usual.

Dean knew from experience that it would take him a few hours to relax—however long it took that day's guilt noose to uncoil around his neck, however long it took Cas to quit feeling ashamed about being, God, human and imperfect. Or, you know, whatever it was that made most religious people temporarily pious.

Despite the presence of Cas in his life, Dean didn't actually know. All religions looked the same to him, and woe to anyone who tried to convert him—especially Cas, who should know better.

Well. Maybe not Cas. Dean didn't give two hoots about the 'sanctity of his immortal soul', but having someone else worry… well, that was kind of alright. Kind of cute, actually. As long as Cas didn't touch the beer, they'd be fine.

Dean smiled fondly, reaching for a towel. They always were.

 

\-----

 

It didn't get better.

If anything, it got a whole hell of a lot worse.

Sam didn't fit. Sam didn't fit in _any_ of this. He was like a puzzle piece that was too big for the space it was crammed into.

And if Sam was a little out of place, well, then Jess was a visitor from outer space because she. Didn't. _Belong._ Her presence was impossible, still, and it freaked him out like nothing else would.

But Sam kept his mouth shut, because he was a lot of things, but stupid wasn't one of them. He wasn't going to tell his girlfriend that she was wrong and shouldn't exist. As far as she was concerned, there was more evidence for her reality than there was for his. Wasn't he wearing that unfamiliar suit? Wasn't he driving that unfamiliar car?

Maybe Sam was a little afraid he was going nuts and was just starting to notice. He tried to think logically about all of this. What if this dissociation from reality was symptom of the concussion he may have had? What if it was a temporary thing? _What if it was just him?_

As for Jess... Well, Sam may distrust her presence with him, but he didn't want to hurt her any more than he'd want to hurt a real Jess. He wasn't a complete ass.

But he didn't _like_ this. He didn't like this at all. If he was missing bits of his memory, okay, whatever. He could adapt—he would have to. But this? What he was actually feeling? This was more like reality was constantly out of sync with itself—Jess, case in point. If he didn't remember her, then, fine, he had amnesia. He would deal with it. But, in reality, she was hardly a stranger. He knew her and he knew her well.

But _this_ Jess—this girl that his gut kept on saying was impossible—wasn't anything like the Jess he remembered. It was more like… she was a twin who couldn't quite match her sister's personality. Or like someone who didn't know her had made her from scratch and tried to pass her off as the real deal.

In any case, it felt like he was sitting in a car with a familiar stranger, and he could not interpret this as anything less than sinister. Naturally, this made him tense, wary, and very, very paranoid. His knuckles stayed taunt and white on the steering wheel. Most of his attention was focused not on the road, but on _her_.

Even so, he knew he shouldn't blame Jess, because it wasn't just her. A lot of different, incongruent things were making him feel like this. Until he got to the bottom of it, he wasn't going to feel safe at all.

His cell phone was suddenly thrust in his direction. He tried not to react, barely managing to keep the car straight on the road.

Jess didn't pull her eyes away from the window. "Text," she said distantly when he didn't immediately take the phone.

He stared at it for a moment, distracted by the way her fingers curled around the plastic. He'd placed it on the seat between them automatically, and she had taken it into her lap. At the time, he hadn't had the heart to tell her to give it back.

Now, he just mumbled a thank you and flipped it open, checking his inbox.

There was a text, just like she said. It was a contact he'd saved as 'Loki' and the damn thing didn't make sense at all.

 _Don't trust Blue Eyes and, for Heaven's sake, get a clue._

Jess said something suddenly. Sam asked her to repeat it.

She sighed, pressing her head against the back of her seat. "Who was it from?" she said again.

Sam swallowed. "Loki?" It came out like a question. He tore his gaze from the phone, hoping she'd allude to the identity of this person. But all she did was nod and look back out the window.

Sam pushed down the disappointment, focusing back on the road. He dropped the phone back on the seat, purposefully not reacting when she picked it up again.

Ten minutes later, she said, "I'm worried." When he looked over, he saw that she was chewing on her lip.

"Why?" What did she have to worry about? Reality wasn't warping around her.

"The family reunion." Her eyes flickered over to him. "That's kind of a big step for you, isn't it?"

Sam tightened his hands on the wheel. He could tell that she was looking at him, assessing his reaction, so he attempted to not react at all, keeping his disquiet completely internal. Jess was being oddly coy. She was usually a direct kind of person, which he admired. He didn't know what he was supposed to say to this.

Sam rounded his shoulders and said, slowly, "You've met my family before. They like you." He was blindly guessing at this point. He couldn't imagine that he was the sort of person who wouldn't want to show someone like Jess off to his family, and he couldn't imagine that his family would do anything _but_ like her.

He guessed right, it seemed, because she didn't rush to contradict him. Instead, Jess sighed, leaning her head against the seat. "I just want everything to be perfect."

"It will be," he said, glancing at her. And, because he couldn't help it—he was hungry for the sight of her—he looked again and again, small glances away from the smooth road.

Eventually, she noticed. "What is it?" A small smile played around her mouth.

"What?"

"You're looking at me weird." Her smile invited him to share the joke.

"Nothing, it's just…" Sam let out a choked little laugh, his hands tightening around the steering wheel. "I could have sworn…" He swallowed harshly. His eyes burned and he looked away. That oddly persistent grief reared its ugly head again and he didn't know why.

"Sworn what, Sam?"

Sam's mouth flattened into a thin line. He could have sworn that she was dead. That she had been pinned on a ceiling, spread eagle with her stomach torn to shreds. That everything that they ever shared or had together was devoured by a fire too unnatural, too evil to be a simple accident with the wires.

But... here she was.

Sam forced out another laugh. "I hit my head. Everything's just… fuzzy."

"Should you be driving?"

"Probably not."

Jess laid a gentle hand on his arm. "Sam, you should have told me." She sounded like Dean.

Sam shook his head. "Doesn't matter. We're almost there." With that, he accelerated, pushing the car past the speed limit.

He had to get to Dean. He felt like Dean would make it all better, like Dean would make all the pieces fit together.

He felt like Dean could explain why he thought that the world was about to end and they were missing it, why he felt so wrong here, like nothing was going to be right, and, more importantly, why he thought his girlfriend should be dead, dead like their mom, like their dad, like too many of their friends.

His cell phone buzzed again. He swiped it up before Jess could react. It was Loki again.

 _You're breaking my heart, kid._


	3. Chapter 3

\-----

 

Chapter Three

 

\-----

 

Something was _seriously_ harshing his happy, and Dean had a bad feeling it was him. Who better to rain on his own parade, right?

Well, actually, if he was going to be totally, brutally honest, the unhappy little rain cloud in his otherwise clear day was Castiel, not Dean. He felt uncomfortable noting this because Cas hadn't done anything—not really. Dean was just... he was just _reacting_ to something. Something that wasn't even there.

Dean tried to just ignore it, but these things were easier said than done.

He tried to occupy himself with cleaning the kitchen, but he was distracted. How could he not be, with Cas acting like a pod person? All trench coaty and intense, like someone told him that the world was about to end and the only way to save it was to assemble a flash mob. A really, really lame one too.

Dean sighed, looking at the ceiling. He wouldn't put it past those people at Castiel's church. They could get pretty intense at times.

Dean'd had every intention dispelling that shroud of stupidity the second he got out of the shower, but whatever he'd been about to say died in his throat when he actually stood toe to toe with Cas because… something just wasn't _right_. Dean could feel it in his gut.

As for Castiel, he had just stood there, staring at Dean with an endless gaze. Then he looked away, awkwardly complimenting the house, like he wasn't the one to decorate it.

Castiel'd left the room real fast after that and, when he came back, there was no mention of what had crawled up his butt then—just a smile and a 'how was your day?' and a kiss for good measure.

That all had happened an hour ago, maybe two. Dean had been alone in the house for maybe half that, as Castiel had wandered out to talk to the neighbors. He was disgustingly friendly like that.

And now Dean was hearing a noise not unlike a bird taking flight—this, he barely registered, caught up in the menial task of cleaning out the stove. Birds flew all the time. But the groan of weight being pressed on a squeaky floorboard? Now, _that_ got his attention. He wiped his hands off quickly on a nearby dishrag and then bounded out of the kitchen in three long strides.

He rounded the corner and came to an abrupt stop. "Oh! There you are," he muttered. Castiel lifted his head from his contemplation of the frames that littered the coffee table, something like wariness passing over his face when Dean came closer.

Dean stopped about a foot away. He cleared his throat, lifted his eyebrows and said, "The neighbors chase you away?"

He couldn't work anything else out of his mouth. There was an oil slick sense of wrongness in the back of his throat again. He couldn't pinpoint it. Maybe he was getting sick. Maybe all those fumes from the shop were finally screwing him over. Maybe it was the fact that Cas bounced out of there not twenty minutes ago wearing a cardigan—a cardigan, of all things—and came back wearing a trench coat, a suit, and a frown.

Now that he thought about it, Cas was wearing that coat before too, when he'd somehow appeared in the bathroom without triggering the alarm-like screeching of the old door.

Dean swallowed deeply, and then closed the rest of the distance between them. Castiel's wariness only increased. His eyes narrowed as Dean framed his face in his hands, but he didn't move away. Stubble tickled Dean's palms.

Dean licked his lips. "Did you… did you want me to cancel this thing?" He swiped his thumbs under pale blue eyes, wondering when they started looking so worn out and tired, when Cas started looking like he was bearing the weight of the entire world on his shoulders. "Because... if you're not feeling well…"

Castiel looked down abruptly, shaking his head once. His dry palms slid over the back of Dean's hands, squeezing gently before pulling them away. "I would not stand in the way of your happiness, Dean." There was a touch of disapproval there, like he was saying that he doubted Dean would do the same.

Stung, Dean pulled his hand back like he'd touched fire. Who'd replaced Cas with RoboCas? More importantly, what the hell did Dean do to receive that kind of… _dismissal_? Sort of pissed and a little afraid, Dean determinedly reached for Castiel, going for the face again.

Cas didn't exactly flinch, but his eyes tightened, like he kept not expecting it, which was weird. Everyone knew Dean was a touchy feely kind of guy—not about emotions though. No chick stuff. That was his motto.

Dean rested the back of his hand over Castiel's forehead. "You don't have a fever," Dean said with a frown. "Maybe it's a stomach flu thing. Hear those have been going around."

Castiel eyed him curiously. "I don't get sick."

Dean's hands moved down and smoothed over the lapels of the trench coat. "Coulda sworn we burned this stupid thing," he muttered under his breath. He slid his hands underneath it, pushing it off Castiel's shoulders.

Castiel let him, looking away only for a moment to watch the coat fold over the back of the couch. Dean frowned again. Something wasn't quite right about all this, but hell if he could figure it out. Cas looked weird in nearly all clothes he wore, but it wasn't until now that Dean realized that, without the coat, Cas looked naked and diminished somehow.

Swallowing again, Dean started straightening the loose tie. "You'd tell me if there was something wrong, wouldn't you?"

"Not if it would inconvenience you."

Dean's hands tightened in Castiel's tie. "That's bullcrap," he snapped, angrier about that than he expected. "I don't care if I have one foot in the grave. Tell me if something's up, okay?" They stared at each other for a moment longer.

The doorbell rang.

Dean let out a low, frustrated breath. He fixed Castiel with a glare. "We're not through with this," he promised, detaching himself from Cas.

Dean crossed the living room to the front door and opened it to the sight of a sincerely _massive_ son of a bitch hovering awkwardly on his porch. The man was wearing a wrinkled suit and had his hands shoved deep in his pockets, his too long hair combed back with gel. He looked like he'd just walked out of a lawyer's office and, despite that, he still looked all of twelve, fixing Dean with puppy eyes long before Dean ever did something to deserve them.

Something like relief broke through the tension on the other man's face at the sight of Dean. "Dude," Sam said eloquently, putting that Stanford education to _fine_ use.

Sam wasn't the only one to feel relieved. Dean grinned. "Dude!" he echoed, shoving the door all the way open. "Come on in!" He patted his brother briskly on his shoulder, pushing the moron inside when it looked like he was just going to hover and stare. Then Dean turned his smile on his other guest, who'd been hidden behind his brother's mass. "Hiya, Jess."

Jess beamed at him, going straight for a hug. "Hiya, Dean." She smelled like flowers and Sam's shampoo. Her curly, blond hair tickled his nose and, for a reason he couldn't pinpoint, he was upset all of a sudden. He clung to her just a little bit tighter, making her 'oof' in response.

And then Sam was saying, in a strange voice, "Hey, Cas." Dean pulled away from Jess, instantly concerned. His brother's back was to Dean. His shoulders looked tight, and when his shoulders went tight, he was less Dean's little brother and more The Great Wall of Sam.

Dean didn't like having to squeeze past his brother in his own damn hallway, thank you very much, but he did.

Castiel was lifting his chin up slightly, peering into Sam's eyes like he could see through them to the back of Sam's skull. "Hello, Sam."

Dean looked at Sam, at Cas, and then back at Sam again. There was tension like, whoa, between the two of them. Since when had that been a thing? Sam and Cas got along like two nerdy long lost brothers. It had been Dean who'd acted tense and brusque and ungrateful—at first, at least. But, hell, after the accident, who wouldn't be? Dean still teared up, thinking of the soggy, rusty wreckage of the Impala, and that had happened ten freaking years ago.

Still, though. What the hell was with Sam's reaction? And Castiel's? Dean frowned, deeply bothered by this. Something happened between Sam and Cas, and somehow Dean missed it. He _hated_ missing shit like that.

Dean ushered them all into the living room. There was no point hanging out by the door. Jess took a seat by Castiel. Castiel, who couldn't be acting more out of place and awkward, stared at her profile, like he'd never seen her before. Jess, thankfully, didn't notice.

Like Dean, Sam didn't sit. His hands remained in his pockets. His eyes were flicking around the house—sharp, his little brother was. Sharper than a knife. Nothing got past him.

Dean clapped his hands together, feeling somewhat nervous. "So."

"Reunion's tomorrow, isn't it?" Sam realized out loud with a tiny groan. He turned to Dean, one eyebrow lifting. "Is there a reason you told us to be here a day early?" Dean took heart in Sam's twitching, helpless smile, in the casual lean of his body—even if the casual part was forced.

"Help me, please. You're my only hope." Dean was shameless.

"You freak." Sam made a half-hearted swipe for his head. "You could have just asked." He looked around once, the genuine amusement on his face dying when he realized they were being watched by Jess and Cas. Sam cleared his throat, forcing a smile back on his face. "So. What do we need to do?"

Dean rubbed his hands together greedily and let them know the game plan. Even as he focused on getting his house in order for the big day tomorrow, some part of him lingered on his brother, worrying at the melancholy that seemed to cloak him.

Sam's smile didn't last long. Sam was soon frowning, looking concerned and very much like he had something heavy weighing on his mind. This look persisted throughout the night. And yet, when Dean asked or hinted about it, he'd flash one of these brief, insincere smiles and insist that everything was alright.

Dean made a mental note of that, because he did not believe his brother's shit. But it was okay. He had time. He would crack that nut eventually. He wasn't the big brother for nothing.

A few hours later, when the house was made mostly presentable, Dean called them all back to the living room. It was almost noon. The temperature was high and the air conditioning was unfortunately not cooperating, so Dean had found himself flitting from room to room, opening windows in deference to his guests.

His guests. Jesus Christ. Time had not improved Sam's mood—nor Castiel's, apparently.

Aware that Cas was watching him (and Sam was watching Cas and Jess was watching Sam), Dean pasted on an insincere smile of his own. "Hungry?" Maybe some lunch would cheer them up.


	4. Chapter 4

\-----

 

Chapter Four

 

\-----

 

Dean broke out the beer and then wandered off to call the pizza place— _escaped_ , more like. Sam may not have remembered his life all that well, but he knew Dean like the back of his hand. He knew a disgruntled retreat when he saw it.

Sam's hands twisted up in fists in his pockets. His jacket had been long discarded—his tie and shoes too. He'd unbuttoned his shirt and rolled up his sleeves in deference to the heat, because it seemed like Dean kept a lot of his appliances just shy of 'working perfectly'. The heater blasted on occasionally, turning the house into a sauna, but Dean reacted to the malfunction like he did to the screen door missing a hinge, to the toaster that burnt one side and not the other, to the washer that merrily bounced itself out of the laundry room—with affectionate exasperation.

Any other time, Sam would have been driven nuts by this, because Sam… Sam _liked_ order and organization and things working like they damn well should.

But this wasn't _any other time_. This was now, and Sam had bigger things to worry about than a misbehaving household.

Sam sighed. His memory was still shot to Hell and back. Seeing Dean didn't just fix everything, like he'd hoped. In fact, seeing _Castiel_ just made it worse.

The presence of that one quiet man only compounded Sam's sense of unease, like he too was out of place somehow. What Sam remembered of Castiel was that the guy was his _friend_. He remembered very little more than that, which was truly unfortunate, as his gut was currently screaming, 'Danger, danger, Sam Winchester!'

That wasn't the worst bit. The worst bit was _Dean_ , walking around, smiling at Cas like he was the best thing the world made since pie. And, yeah, okay, Sam kinda expected that from his brother, but somehow he also expected Dean to be more subtle about it—to deny deny deny when called out on it. That was what he usually did. At least, Sam _thought_ that-

Sam made a face. _You know what, never mind._

Sam pressed the glass of the sweating beer against his forehead—his reward for tackling dust in high places. He moved away from the kitchen, where Dean and Jess were teasing each other from above and below the leaky sink. Somehow, their simple happiness grated on him.

Sam sighed, coming to a stop in front of the fireplace. He took a long swig of the beer, wondering why he was being such a freak about this.

Idly eyeing the pictures on the mantel, Sam nearly choked on his mouthful when he realized what he was looking at. Some pictures were fine, _expected_. There was Mary and John grinning at the camera, a younger Dean and Sam in a field with fireworks just behind them, the four of them at a picnic, a grease covered and smiling Dean in work clothes standing around with other men in work clothes. These things were all _normal_.

It was the last picture on the mantel that really threw him.

Dean padded out behind him nearly silently, his socks scraping against worn carpet. Sam turned to his brother, sort of awe-struck and shocked. For a long moment, Sam had no idea what to say.

Dean raised his eyebrows at him.

"You're _married,_ " Sam blurted out. More than that, he realized. Married to _Castiel_. The proof was in the picture—two men in tuxedos standing in front of a priest.

What. The. _Fuck_.

Dean looked confused. He glanced down at his ring finger, as if to double check. There was a heavy silver band there that Sam hadn't noticed until just then. "Yes…?" Dean seemed to be waiting for a punchline. When it didn't come, he frowned. "Don't tell me you forgot, _best man_."

It felt like all the heat in the room just vanished. Sam found himself choking on the cold.

"What? No, I just…" Sam thought quickly, trying to cover up for his lapse—because he did remember the wedding all of a sudden. It came in a mess of vague images and muffled bits of dialogue. He remembered Dean's nervous pacing, Castiel's nausea, the glee of everyone else involved.

The bombardment of memory was too much. Sam stumbled back slightly and averted his eyes. "Wondering how you did it, that's all." He suppressed the urge to rub at his forehead. His earlier headache was making a vicious comeback after being quiet for a few hours.

Meanwhile, Dean's expression was clearing. He looked amused all of a sudden. "Sammy wants pointers from big bro. Three guesses why." Dean pointedly looked back at the kitchen—at _Jess_ —before looking back at Sam, his eyebrows high on his forehead. He hissed, "You got the ring yet?"

Sam stared at him. It was an expected question. If anything, Sam should have been embarrassed or maybe even annoyed at Dean for rushing him. He _should_ have. Instead, all he felt was a distant, thready sort of despair and a sense of _if only_.

 _It didn't make sense_.

"No, but…" Sam cleared his throat, turning away quickly. "Dude. Don't say anything."

"Come on!" Dean complained. Sam could see the barest shape of Dean's grin reflected in the glass of the picture frames. "It's like a fairy tale!"

Sam snorted helplessly. "Grow up."

"Sammy and Jessica, sitting in a tree-"

"I said _grow up_!" Sam snapped, more harshly than he meant to. He looked over his shoulder, his hand tightening over the beer bottle.

The glass shattered. The remains fell to the floor, splattering liquid everywhere.

Dean's eyes widened. He darted forward quickly, his hands reaching for Sam and his mouth starting to form words, but Sam was no longer in the room. He was on the back porch, panting hard like he'd run a race and lost.

Sam paused, lifting his hand. Blood pooled in his curled palm, slick like sweat. Sam flicked it away distractedly and moved away from the door, dropping down the steps until his bare feet were in Dean's hard won grass. Sunlight tickled across the back of his neck while a light breeze ruffled his hair.

Shakily, Sam rubbed his face with his clean hand. God, he was going insane. There was no other explanation for this.

Fortunately, Dean knew better than to follow.

His cell vibrated in his pocket. Wearily, he pulled it out, looking at the bright display.

 _I always knew Dean-o had a hard on for Blue Eyes._

Sam snorted with laughter, unexpected as it was, because some part of him agreed.

Sam started to text back ('who are you' was at the top of his list of questions) but he stopped midway, tensing up from head to toe.

Castiel was on the porch behind him.

Sam didn't know how he knew the guy was there, but he _knew_. Heart thumping erratically in his throat, he teetered around slowly, pushing his cell back into his pocket.

Sure enough, there was Cas in all his trench coat glory. Sam straightened to his full height, feeling somewhat like he was facing an enemy across a battlefield. He widened his stance slightly, letting his hands fall into loose fists at his sides.

Dean loved Cas. Cas was his husband. Sam liked Cas. Cas was his friend.

These facts did not line up with the marrow-deep distrust he felt for the man. It almost felt like gut instinct. Or maybe not so instinctive, considering the texts. Loki didn't seem too enamored with 'Blue Eyes' either.

Sam's hands tightened. He might have dismissed his own feelings on this. He thought Jess was dead, what did he know? He might have even dismissed Loki's texts—after all, who the hell was he and why did he care? He might have just powered through his unease, even if it was only for Dean. He would have done it. He would have ignored _everything_ —every wrong memory, every off detail.

But he couldn't because Castiel was staring at him with just as much distrust—and there had to be a reason for that, right?

When Sam called him out on it, all Cas did was tilt his head and benignly comment on how well Sam was doing. His voice was deep and tinged with odd whimsy. Sam's eyes narrowed.

At that, the man sighed deeply, stepping down the few steps of the porch. "I truly expected that it would incapacitate you," Castiel continued, his words low and rough. "I was wrong." There was something like an apology in that, but it was hardly an apology.

Sam stared at him. "What are you talking about?"

Castiel frowned, lifting his hand slightly like he was reaching for Sam. His palm faced Sam and Sam flinched despite himself, backing up a few paces. Nothing happened. Castiel stared back at him for a longer moment before tipping his head back and smiling. "Nothing that matters here, I can see." His eyes dropped to the ground for a moment before swinging back up. "You're far more aware than he is. You always have been."

Sam's hands fisted at his sides. "Your point?"

A smile flickered over Castiel's face again, odd and affected. "There are consequences, Sam." He lowered his voice even more. “Don't scratch at the wall.”

Sam had nothing to say to that, but he felt a chill go down his spine. The words were familiar, somehow.

After a moment of mutual silence, Castiel bent his neck slightly in a nod, as if acknowledging Sam. Then he went back up the stairs and into the house.

As soon as his trench coat swished out of sight, Sam let out a huge breath, one that he hadn't been aware that he was holding. Sam rubbed at his arms unthinkingly, smearing blood across one sleeve. His mouth twisted.

Right. So that was _normal_.

 

\-----

 

If anyone bothered to ask him, Sam had very, very good justification for leaving. Dean's house was nice, but it wasn't built for an army. Even adding two more people was pushing it. People were already stepping on each other's toes and it would only be a matter of time before tempers started to fray.

It should have surprised no one when Sam talked Dean into letting them get a hotel room, and it didn't. It wasn't really something his brother was too happy about it, but he caved, clapping Sam on the shoulder and promising to talk to Cas.

"Don't think I haven't noticed that you two are being weird," Dean said, half-scolding. Sam ducked his head reflexively. He'd thought he was being a little more subtle about that.

So. The practical reason for leaving was the size of the house. The defensive reason—or so Dean thought—was to get away from Castiel. However, the actual, real motivating reason that got Sam moving was neither of these.

The real reason was that he got another text from Loki.

 _Get a hotel room. Really push the limit. You'll make things easier on me._

Sam's first reaction was _no way in Hell_ , even though he was slightly curious as to what pushing the 'limit' meant. After all, Castiel was acting really weird and Dean was oblivious to it. Wouldn't the smarter thing be sticking around and keep an eye on things?

After some thought, though, Sam decided against it. They'd both hate it, Dean especially when he caught wind of it, and he would. Dean had a sort of built-in radar for that sort of thing and he tended to react poorly when his 'little brother' tried to look out for him.

Besides, Sam was probably being overprotective. They'd been married for almost a freaking decade. If Castiel was suddenly going to turn into an axe murderer over night, he would have done it already. Dean wasn't the easiest person to know or live with.

So, reluctantly, Sam decided to take Loki's advice.

Before he left, Dean approached him. Sam was seated on the ground, shoving on his shoes. His brother leaned against the front door, watching him. Dean was frowning.

Uncomfortable, Sam cleared his throat. "I'll take the…"

Sam paused. He had no idea what he was about to say. God. Was this going to be a thing now?

Dean was frowning at him. "Take the what? The bus?"

"Yes," Sam said, relieved. "That." He couldn't take the car, he remembered suddenly. Jess was taking the car to the store to pick up more party supplies.

Dean's frown only deepened. "You doing okay?"

"Just… stressed out."

"Yeah, I'd figure." Sam's head shot up. He expected Dean to call him out on his missing memory, his shady behavior, but his brother was smiling at him. "Opening your own office, and in California… at your age?" Dean whistled annoyingly, but the expression on his face was deeply impressed.

It was an expression that should have made Sam feel warm and proud inside. Instead, he felt vaguely guilty. "Yeah, well," Sam said weakly. "You know me. A real go getter."

Dean was still smiling. "I'm proud of you, Sam. Really."

Sam stared at his hands for a moment, then looked up at his brother. "You're not mad at me for ditching you in Kansas?"

Sam had a vivid memory of walking down an empty highway, his entire life strapped to his back. He'd been angry in that hurt, righteous way he knew would be the death of him someday.

Dean frowned at him. Sam froze, because he knew that look. Sam closed his eyes.

Oh God. Dean didn't know what he was talking about.

After a moment, Dean snorted, pushing away from the door. He ran a hand over Sam's head, messing up his hair. "I booted your ass out, remember?" Dean disappeared deeper into the house, shouting over his shoulder, "Good times!"

"Yeah, that's…" Sam rubbed his forehead. "That's not what happened at all." Except he remembered it that way now, perfectly. He flattened both palms over his eyes, groaning softly. "I need more aspirin."

His cell trilled at him. Sam picked it up. _Got your car privileges taken away, huh?_

Sam stared at the display. A second later, he was hammering out his own response. _How do you know I'm taking the bus?_

Then he jumped to his feet and was out on the front porch. The car was gone, but, in its place was a nondescript bus, idling quietly on the curb. _Car privileges_. It wasn't a privilege, it was a _right_. What the hell was Loki talking about?

His phone buzzed again. _He can control the bus driver. He can't control you._

Another text followed right on its heels. _Not entirely, anyway._

Angry, but mostly confused, Sam got on the bus, wondering when buses started making house calls.

 

\-----

 

How he got from the bus to the hotel to the lobby to the row of doorways, Sam couldn't have told you. He spent most of his time with his eyes down, his focus on his cell phone.

Loki tolerated his questions amiably, but that didn't mean he answered any of them. Sometimes, his responses were straight forward.

 _Those are the wrong questions to ask me, Alice._

Sometimes, they were nonsensical.

 _Does a fish notice the water it lives in?_

Sometimes, there were all too knowing.

 _How's your head doing?_

Rather than soothing Sam's worries, Loki was only adding to them. How was he watching? _How did he know?_

A bit preoccupied, he ran right into another man in the middle of the hallway. Startled, he sprang away, his phone dropping from his fingers.

Despite himself, he laughed when he saw who it was. "Bobby?" He quickly scooped up the phone.

"Sam." Bobby smiled at him, the expression somewhat reluctant and pained. "How you doing boy?" There was a line of tension between his eyebrows that didn't fade with his smile.

"Good, good," Sam said reflexively. After a moment of silence, he licked his lips and changed his answer. "Not so well. Terrible, actually." Sam tugged at the loose knot in his tie. "I'm pretty stressed out, or so people say. My mind's going haywire and… what are you doing?"

Bobby was whipping his hat off his head, dropping in on the ground in front of Sam's door. He looked so very odd without it—smaller, maybe. Less severe.

It didn't detract much from the tension on his face, though, and that was what made Sam stand up straighter.

"Testing something." Bobby grabbed him by the elbow and started tugging him down the hallway, away from his room. Frowning, Sam tucked the room keys back in his pocket, but he didn't resist.

Bobby stopped right at the bend of the hallway, lingering at the corner. He cleared his throat meaningfully, rubbing his knuckles over his forehead. "Where'd I drop that hat, boy?"

"Um." Sam swung back slightly, looking over his shoulder. Sure enough, there it was—a hat on the floor. "In front of my room?"

Bobby peeked around the corner, groaning at whatever he saw. He leaned hard against the wall, closing his eyes. "That's what I thought. _Christ_."

Sam was nervous now. "Bobby? Mind filling me in?"

Bobby opened his eyes, staring at Sam for a while as if sizing him up. Then he jerked his head toward the continuing hallway. "Look around the corner."

Sam did, and when he saw it, he stared and he stared. But then he saw something that Bobby didn't.

He staggered out around the corner, seeing, impossibly, a familiar suit jacket, a familiar head of hair.

And, of course, a hat in the middle of the hallway.

"You look," Sam said hoarsely, pulling at Bobby's shirt until he too stepped out from behind the corner.

Then the familiar figure was met by a figure in plaid and jeans, and if this was seriously what he thought it was, they were really fucked.

Dreading it, hating it, not really wanting to, Sam looked all the way over his shoulder, meeting Bobby's wide, horrified gaze seven doorways down the hall.


	5. Chapter 5

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Chapter Five

 

\-----

 

A curvy brunette was distractedly texting on her phone on front of the local store. At the sight of her, Dean smirked at his reflection in the rear view mirror and pulled up in front, rolling down his window.

She paused, noticing his car. It wasn't quite the Impala, but it was a definite beauty and instantly recognizable to anyone who knew him. Dean poked his head out of his window. He smiled at her. One dark eyebrow lifted.

"Heya, gorgeous," Dean greeted. After a pause, he gestured between the two of them. "You, me, and a box of the cheapest wine money can buy. What do you say?"

Good natured humor brought out her smile, but she made as if she was seriously considering it. "Oh, so tempting," she murmured, stepping closer to the car. She bent over a little so that they were more at eye level. "But, you know, Dean, I think I'm gonna have to pass."

She grinned. After a beat, he grinned back at her, not bothered by the rejection. No hard feelings there.

Noticing her kid coming out of the store behind her, he cut down on the flirting. Poor guy could get confused.

He immediately got to the real reason he'd pulled his car up. "You coming to the family reunion, Lisa?"

The smile that curved her lips now was more genuine. "Wouldn't miss it for the world. I love your parents." Lisa paused, frowning. "Do I need to bring anything?"

Dean eyed Ben and the man standing just behind him. His eyes narrowed. "No, just you, Ben, and maybe GQ of the Month."

Dean hated him very much. He was the perfect man for Lisa. These two facts were not related. Mostly, anyway.

"That's Mister GQ to you," the man muttered with a pretend scowl. Lisa straightened up from the car, beaming at him. "We should be beyond titles, Dean. Haven't you heard?" He hooked an arm around Lisa's shoulder. "Lisa's gonna make an honest man out of me." He had a perfect smile, the asshole.

"You'll look lovely in white."

Lisa swatted Dean. "Stop it."

What? Dean was an ex-boyfriend. He was allowed to be petty.

Lisa looked over her shoulder. "Ben, let's go!"

Ben looked away from a trio of gossiping cheerleaders with a bit of a guilty start. "Okay," he mumbled. "Heya, Dean."

Dean lifted a hand. "Heya, Ben."

The three of them took off. Ben trailed somewhat behind the other two, hands deep in his pockets. He wasn't exactly resentful of his mother's new relationship. Just wary and hopeful. Dean could tell.

Dean sighed. He wished he had the right to tell him that everything was going to be alright—that everything was going to be perfect. Lisa would make it with this new guy—whatever the hell his name was. Dean just knew it.

He watched in the rear view mirror as they reached their car. Lisa rose to the tips of her toes, gently kissing her fiance.

Dean jerked his eyes away guiltily, and focused on finding a parking spot. He found one quickly and near the front, but even as he pulled his keys out of the ignition, he found himself stalling.

He wanted her to be so, so happy. He wanted to her be happy and safe and secure because… because….

Because she _deserved_ that, after everything. After _him_.

Someone rapped on his window. Dean flinched and looked through the glass. A paper list was pressed against it.

He could hear her voice, slightly muffled through the car door. "Last one to finish is a rotten egg!"

Then the list disappeared.

Dean shoved open the door and jumped out quickly, calling out, "Aw, hell no, little girl!"

Jess laughed loudly, stumbling into the store. She'd made it before him, apparently, in Sam's little clunker of a car. What. The. Hell.

He got out of the car and went out after her, pulling his own list free from his jeans.

 

\-----

 

Stores were neat. Dean had always thought so. So much food, so little time. The only drawback, of course, was that you had to share stores with every other idiot in town. And their kids.

Oh God, their kids.

Between the two of them, Dean and Jess managed to condense an hour long shopping trip into about twenty minutes. They met in the middle of the store and pulled up to the same line.

Dean tried not to pout. Jess finished before him, damn it.

"Hey, Jess." He could be gracious. He _could_.

Jess was frowning at her list. "Got the extra chips and the extra dips." Her whole cart was full of them.

Dean smirked, leaning against his own. "What would I do without you?"

The sassy little brat pretended to give that some thought. "Go to the other side of the store and get it yourself?" She fluttered her eyelashes at him.

"Smart ass." Dean nudged her shoulder with his own, smiling at her when she looked up. "No wonder my brother likes you."

They started unloading the carts together on the conveyor belt. Bottles clicked against bottles and salsa jars threatened to roll their way happily to the floor. Dean mentally sighed. This one was definitely going to break the piggy bank, and this was the fourth time he'd been to this store in the last two days. The cashiers knew him by name now.

"About Sam…"

Dean pulled himself out of his thoughts. "What about Sam?"

Jess squirmed a little bit, making a face. "He's been really… off recently."

"How so?" The question was sharp—too sharp. Dean tried to blunt the edges of it with an apologetic look but… damn it, he didn't respond well to uncertainties about Sammy.

"Just…" Jess made a little noise of frustration, looking up at the ceiling for a moment before looking at Dean again. "I think he's stressed over his work. He's been working all hours of the day, but even when he sleeps, there's still no rest for him. He has these… horrible nightmares and he wakes up screaming." She slapped another bag on the belt, her shoulders sagging. "I don't know what to do."

"What has he said about it?"

Jess sighed irritably, shrugging a shoulder. "That he's fine," she said flatly.

"Then he should be fine." Dean didn't understand why women had to make things so complicated. Then something occurred to Dean—that maybe Sammy was lying. Suddenly alarmed, he backpedaled a bit. "I mean, he tells you everything."

"I'm not so sure about that. I'm not so sure he trusts me either. Earlier today…" Jess paused. Her bottom lips was tucked between her teeth. After a moment, she looked down, shaking her head with a self-conscious laugh. "Never mind. It's too weird."

Dean dropped the food back in the cart, giving her his full attention. "No, I'm okay with weird," he assured her. "What is it?"

"A few hours ago, when he came back from the gas station… he came into the car and he…" Jess frowned, all humor lost from her expression. "He looked at me like he was seeing a ghost."

Dean stared down at her. Someone's kid screeched from the next line over. Voices droned indistinctly from the store's speaker system, almost obscured by the nearly endless murmur of all the people around him. But all he focused on was Jessica's face lit up in white fluorescent lighting—all he could think about was the Smurfs and cookies and house fires.

Dean looked away quickly. "I'll talk to him," he said in strangely choked voice.

Her expression immediately lightened. "Thank you so much, Dean."

Though Dean smiled back at her and tried to act normal the rest of the way through the line, all he could think was that he did not deserve her gratitude.

 

\-----

 

This was nuts. Just plain _insane_.

The two of them went back to Sam's room and held a conference in low, hissed whispers just outside his door.

Bobby had reacted badly to their new reality. His back was against a wall and his temper was flaring because of it. "And just what the hell are we supposed to do about it, huh?" Bobby spat, his eyes wide and roaming up and down the hotel's thin hallway. "I'm a scrap metal salesman and you're a _lawyer_."

Well. Bobby had a point there. An indisputable one.

Bobby swiped his hat off of the floor and jammed it on his head. It seemed to make him a little more calmer, because he said, "Maybe, if we sleep on it, it will go away."

Sam snorted in disbelief. "Is that what you think it is? A shared hallucination? Are you _kidding_ me?" Looking slightly guilty, Bobby shrugged. "Bobby, this is… this is something important, and we have to _figure it out_."

"Why us?" Bobby asked plaintively.

"I… well… what?" Captain Eloquence, he was not.

"Why us?" Bobby repeated sourly. He flapped a helpless gesture at the end of the—dare Sam think it— _looping_ hallway. "Why do we have to be the ones who investigate the bad thing?" Bobby was scowling at him now. "I've seen horror movies that start like this, Sam, and, you know what? The intrepid heroes don't live long!"

"This isn't a- okay." Sam clapped his hands together in front of his mouth. He closed his eyes and tried to think.

"Okay?" Bobby echoed warily. When Sam opened his eyes, he saw that Bobby was frowning at him.

"Okay." He nodded and let out a deep breath. He shrugged helplessly. "We'll sleep on it, or whatever."

"Okay," Bobby said.

" _Okay_ ," Sam said with a note of finality. He and Bobby scowled at each other.

This was just absurd.

He waited until Bobby had fumbled his way into his room—the room across from Sam's—before fitting his key into his own door.

He paused once inside the threshold. His things were already on the bed—a suitcase and a bag. Another suitcase and another bag were stacked up beside the bed. He walked over to them, flipping over the tag. _Jess_.

Sam closed his eyes, fingers with fiddling with the plastic.

He hadn't brought anything with him. _Anything_. He'd left all of this in his car, which, if he'd heard right, should have been at the store by now.

Sam sighed, sinking into the bed. He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, tossing it from hand to hand in a burst of agitation. He was confused and more than a little scared, but he was also feeling oddly _vindicated_ about all of this.

As insane as this all was, _he_ was not. This was an important distinction.

Reality was noticeably _wrong_ and not just for him anymore. Laws of physics were actively being violated here, and he wasn't the only one noticing it.

Somewhat victoriously, he stabbed out a text to his mystery contact. _The hotel loops back on itself._

The response came quickly. _Duh._

Fuming, Sam stared at the text. A million question were multiplying in his head. This Loki person seemed to know a hell of a lot more than Sam did. And, if he knew this was going to happen, then he pretty much sent Sam right into a trap.

Sam decided to ask the most pressing question.

 _Will we ever escape?_

His cell beeped a moment later. _Only when your warden calls._

 _Who's the warden?_

There was a pause. Sam found himself hunched over the phone again, his muscles tense and his feet pressed firmly into the floor.

Finally, the cell beeped again. _Haven't you guessed already? It's Dean-o._

Sam nearly dropped the phone. He was shocked. But any of that was slowly engulfed by something deeper, more visceral—anger. Sam was _furious_. This guy that no one knew… How _dare_ he imply Dean was trapping them there?

Sam started typing out a biting response, but then suddenly the phone was ringing—the _room_ phone.

Sam abandoned his cell, picking up the land line cautiously. "Hello?"

It was Dean. "Dude."

"How'd you get this number?" Sam demanded. Plastic creaked under his tightening grip.

"Number?" Dean sounded confused. "It's your number, Sam. I just- are you alright?"

Sam's jaw worked for a little bit, expressing the annoyance he couldn't— _wouldn't_ —voice because Dean... Dean wouldn't know what he was talking about.

"What do you want?"

"When were you planning on coming back?" Dean asked, disgruntled.

Sam was speechless for a moment, like the words had taken a left turn into his lung rather than into his throat where they belong. When speech came back to him, he still stalled.

If Loki was right…

Sam rubbed his head and said quickly. "Can Bobby come too? It's just… I miss him."

There was a long pause on the other end.

When Dean finally spoke, he sounded as confused as Sam felt. "Okay, Samantha. Bring Bobby with you."

Forgetting that Dean couldn't see him, Sam nodded and hung up the phone. He grabbed his jacket off the chair he'd slung it on and made his way out into the hallway.

He banged on the door across the way. Though not without grumbling, Bobby opened it, scowling at Sam.

Sam barely noticed. "Let's go." He started walking down the hallway.

Bobby cursed at him loudly, but he was following in a moment. "What are we doing?"

"I have a hunch. We're testing it."

"What happened to sleeping on it?"

Sam shot him a look over his shoulder. "Like you'd be able to sleep in the Twilight Zone."

"There's a minibar in my room," Bobby said caustically. "I was thinking of giving it the old college try."

Noticing that Bobby was slowing down the closer they got to the bend in the hallway, Sam dropped back and dragged a disgruntled Bobby along by his elbow.

Bobby was bristling. "Don't you see? I've done this already. For _hours_." He yanked his arm free of Sam's grip, but kept up the pace. "We're gonna round that goddamn corner and we're gonna see-"

They rounded the bend and stopped.

After a moment, Sam turned to Bobby and said, gently, "The lobby?"

Bobby was frozen. And then he suddenly was not. He let out a shaky sigh of relief, then stormed past a confused hotel worker. He shoved his way outside and through the double glass doors and into the fading sunlight.

Sam nodded apologetically at those Bobby had jostled, lightly jogging after the older man.

A little ahead of him was the parking lot. Bobby was walking up to his pick-up truck, running a reverent hand over the red finish.

By the time Sam made it to his side, Bobby had his head bowed. He was rubbing at his eyes. "Thank God," he said thickly, tiredly.

Sam stared at the top of his head helplessly. " _Bobby._ " He'd been in that hotel for much longer than Sam, and it had taken its toll on him.

Bobby lifted his head, clearing his throat. He glared at the building for a moment before glancing back at Sam. "It was nothing, Sam. Just our minds playin' tricks on us."

"Bobby-"

"You said it yourself," Bobby said sharply. "We're stressed out, we're seeing shit, we're-"

"What do you have to be stressed out about?" Sam snapped, perhaps a little unfairly.

"I…" At first, Bobby's expression was more than a little defensive—it was actively offended. Then it shifted to more and more of a surprised look as he thought about it. "I don't know. I really don't know." His darted away and back again. When he spoke once more, his voice was whisper-soft. "I barely remember getting _here_ , Sam."

Sam licked his lips. Somehow, he thought he'd be more relieved to find another person who had gaps in their memory too—the companionship of like recognizing like, at the very least.

Instead, he felt kind of worse.

Slowly, quietly, he started talking. "People keep telling me I'm stressing out about opening my own office, but I don't remember my office, at all. I don't even remember law school. All I remember is…" Sam shrugged. "Generic office things. Putting papers in boxes, taking them out. Staplers, paper clips, secretaries with fake nails, lawyers with snobby haircuts." Sam's nails dug into his palms. This was the first time he'd acknowledged the biggest gaps in his memory, but admitting to it only made the prospect scarier instead of easier. He sighed. "There's more to it than that. I know it."

"What are you saying?" Bobby hissed, looking disturbed. "That you can't remember your own damn life?"

Sam groaned softly, rubbing his head. "I don't know." Mostly because that wasn't necessarily true. He remembered when people prompted him, but the memories always rang so false.

That was way more damn complicated than simple memory loss. The damn looping hallway proved that one and beyond a doubt too.

"Can you?" Sam asked. Bobby blanched. He didn't answer, which was answer enough.

There was a long, awkward silence.

"Come on," Sam said finally, patting Bobby's truck. "Let's just go. Before the hotel decides to suck us back in."

Bobby glowered at him. "Boy, don't joke about that."


	6. Chapter 6

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Chapter Six

 

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They arrived at Dean's house not much more than ten minutes later. Bobby was normally a safe, rule-following kind of driver, but residual panic made him put more pressure on the gas than usual.

Sam didn't comment. He had nothing useful to say, so he said nothing, watching the scenery fly by in a blur—more of a blur than usual.

Bobby pulled up in front of Dean's house and got out. Sam followed at a slower pace, watching as Bobby hesitated, like he wasn't sure they were at the right place. But he _had_ to know where he was going because he never asked for directions.

Sam turned his gaze to the house. It was nice—nicer than he expected from Dean. It was a two story affair covered in white paint and blue trim. The paint was peeling slowly, the blue coat newer than the white. Dean had porches for both yards, Sam knew, but the front porch was barely big enough for the door, let alone the stunted potted tree next to it. There was an evil looking garden gnome standing guard by the stairs, half-covered in quick growing ivy.

The grass was being choked to death by the leaves of the trees that marked the edges of the property. One tree leaned hard against the weathered wooden fence, forcing it to bend out towards the neighbor's yard. Under that tree was a bat and a discarded jump rope—detritus from passing neighborhood kids, if Sam was guessing right. Dean seemed like the type to let kids roam in his yard.

In front of Sam, Bobby was seizing up the property warily. Whatever he saw seemed to settle him, somewhat, because he detached himself from the car. He led the way from the street to the house. Sam followed a few footsteps slower, scanning for signs of Castiel.

Fortunately, the guy seemed to be making himself scarce.

The sun was starting to set behind them. The light bathed Dean's white and blue house into all, fiery orange and, for a second, Sam couldn't breathe. Then he was stepping through the front door and into a welcoming party of one.

Jess, pretty as hell in a light yellow dress, pulled away from Bobby, beaming at them both. Bobby seemed slightly confused, but he was friendly, patting the shoulder of the girl who hugged him.

"Come sit with me, Uncle Bobby," Jess said. "I haven't see you in such a long time."

Sam missed Bobby's response, as he was ducking into the kitchen. He noted the mess of groceries on the counter, the conspicuously empty slots in the six packs of beer. An aspirin bottle laid on its side on the table, a few white tablets littering the surface. A man sat at the table, his back to Sam, his short, blunt fingers tapping the surface every once in a while, making the aspirin dance.

And then there was Dean. Dean, who looked like he hadn't slept in days. Dean, who looked like he had the mother of all tension headaches. Dean, who looked like he was about to tumble right into a nasty ass cold because he wasn't spending enough time taking care of himself.

Dean, who looked so damn _strained_ , like he'd been physically pushed too damn far and was paying for it.

Sam must have made a noise, because Dean's gaze was suddenly swinging toward him. And, despite the pain, despite the tension, despite the _sickness_ , his brother still found it in himself to smile.

Dean was leaning against the counter, beer in hand. "Dude, you brought another guest?"

Sam, who had questions bubbling in his throat, wasn't prepared to be interrogated so quickly. "What? Who?"

"Me, of course," said the man at the table. He looked over his shoulder, gold eyes glinting madly. "And you thought you could get away from me, Big Foot… Think again!"

"You… I…" Sam stammered, at a loss. The man's smile only widened. "Who?"

Dean was smirking. "And I was just telling Jess, 'Sam's not the type to hang loose and have fun.' And who shows up? Why, Sam's frat brother, Gabester!"

"Gabester?" Sam echoed stupidly.

" _The Gabester_ ," the man murmured, like it was important. He shrugged casually. "It's a thing."

Sam craned his neck down to look at 'the Gabester', his eyes darting all over the man's face. He was short, much shorter than Sam. He had longer hair than was probably fashionable (not that Sam could talk) and the smirk of a man who always had his hand in the cookie jar.

Sam's eyes narrowed. He could not pinpoint a single time in his life where he'd met this guy, but, damn it, he looked so familiar, like a long lost cousin or an old childhood friend.

Meanwhile, while Sam was desperately trying to place this guy's face in his memory, the 'Gabester' himself distracted Sam by giving him one long look over, a sweeping glance from head to toe. His resulting smile said a lot of things, many of which Sam was pretty sure he was incorrectly assuming. Sam blushed anyway because they all somehow felt like flirting.

Dean was watching him, apparently, and when their eyes met, Dean took it upon himself to frown at Sam heavily. "Gabriel was telling me all about your shenanigans at college." He kept up the disappointed mother routine for ten seconds before he fake sniffled, rubbing at his eye. "I'm so proud of you."

College? Sam didn't remember college—where he went, what he studied, who he hung out with. He jerked his gaze back to Gabriel, hoping to get a glimmer of something from him, but… there was nothing. Nothing but a sickly sense of deja vu.

"What? I don't- he's not. _What_?"

Gabriel pushed himself up from the table. "Excuse us, Dean, I think I need to talk to Sasquatch here a bit."

"Go ahead." Dean lifted a finger to Sam, trying to look stern and failing horribly. "Better tame yourself, tiger. This is a civilized household." He snorted, shaking his head as he walked out of the kitchen. "Classic."

There was a heavy, expectant sort of silence in the room when he left. Gabriel idly nudged magnets along the fridge as he waited for Sam to collect his thoughts.

"I'm not a frat kind of person." As soon as that came out of his mouth, Sam winced. Maybe he should have waited a bit longer.

To his surprise, Gabriel snorted something that sounded a bit like an agreement. "Let your brother dream a little longer." He shoved his hands in his pockets, shrugging. "Might as well be merciful. It's not like I know where he is."

"You…" Sam swallowed. "You are… who are you?"

Gabriel, Gabriel. Why was that name so… familiar?

He was starting to get a picture in his head—wood and tipped over furniture. Ash etched across the floor. A blade made out of silver and etched to look like a stake.

Gabriel looked serious now. "Calm down, Sammy."

Sam started to pace. "It's _Sam_ , and don't _tell me_ to calm down."

"Sam," Gabriel entreated gently.

"Blow me," Sam snarled, because he was on to something here. He was. He clutched his head as his forehead began to throb, but he had a _memory_. There was ash, and it... it made a shape? He started pulling at his hair. Great, ashy imprinting, dwarfing the small figure on the floor. "You're, you're-"

"Stop trying so hard," Gabriel said, exasperated. "It's gonna kick in sooner or later, you know that? And that anger will only carry you so far."

"Shut up," Sam snapped. He gripped at his head a little harder. It was right there, right at the tip of Sam's tongue. Gabriel was… Gabriel was…

Gabriel continued on, shrugging. He was walking around the kitchen, poking at things like he couldn't quite believe that they were real. "You're not going to remember, kiddo. He didn't make a place for us. Only one of my brothers is here. Notice how even Anna didn't make the cut?" Then the beer he reached for melted and bent, like a tower of wax under the sun.

Gabriel shot Sam a startled look, like he just realized Sam's strain, and then he was suddenly on the other side of the table—Sam's side of the table—his voice ringing with quiet command. "Quit tearing at the hole, Sam."

Sam didn't hear the roaring in his ears until it abruptly stopped. He didn't notice how hard he was breathing until his chest started aching with it. And he didn't realize how cold he'd gotten until Gabriel's hands clamped around his wrists. He was panting like he had just run a race, aching like he'd been beaten back and blue, and sweating like he was suffering through a bad fever.

Sam looked down reflexively. Gabriel's hands were locked around his wrists like iron shackles.

Sam's heart surged up to his throat suddenly, because he'd touched Jess—gently, hesitantly. He'd wrapped an arm around her, hugged her, kissed her on the cheek. Each touch solidified that horrible truth he tried to forget he knew—she wasn't real.

But _Gabriel_. Gabriel was real. Sam could feel the truth of that right to the center of his damn soul. It was all in the touch.

Gabriel was staring up at him wonderingly. "You're a little closer to the edge than he is. I'm not surprised. This is his Wonderland, not yours." Gabriel made a face, his grip loosening a little bit. "Plus, you're probably recovering from that impromptu vacation you took down south. Way to go, you, by the way." Then the look in Gabriel's eyes was sympathetic—gentle, even. "But you aren't coping so well, are you?"

Sam stared at him for a moment longer, then blurted out, "You tied me—naked—to a tree outside of the administration building. In the winter." There they were, better late than never—his memories of college, the force of them rushing at him like a train. The irritation at his renewed headache mingled confusingly with his relief that finally—finally—he could remember Gabriel.

But whatever he was remembering on his own, that was gone, slipping out of his fingers like ice on a hot day. He grasped for it desperately, but the more he scrambled, the more it faded away.

"Come on. That's not cruel," Gabriel said with a laugh, releasing him suddenly. "If we went to school in Alaska, on the other hand…" He wiggled his eyebrows at Sam.

Sam rolled his eyes. He put some distance between the two of them, still shaky, somehow. "God, I hate you."

Gabriel shot him a somehow eloquent 'duh' face. "We're frat bros, Sammy. We're supposed to hate each other." Gabriel stepped back a pace, rubbing his hands together. "Now, I was promised baby pictures, free beer, and all the Sam-taunting any man could desire."

Catching only the last half of that, Dean let out a cheer from further inside the house.

Sam tipped his head back and groaned. He always knew putting Dean and Gabriel together would be a Bad Thing—here was his proof.

And if Sam felt thwarted over that lost memory, well... that was no one's business but his own.


	7. Chapter 7

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Chapter Seven

 

\-----

 

It was morning.

Dean had a mouthful of glorious, cold pizza before he remembered that people were coming to the house, and that those people would want breakfast. He swallowed fitfully, eyeing the fridge.

Cold pizza was practically gourmet food in his book, but his book wasn't Sam's book, and what were the odds that a successful, classy lawyer type like him would want anything less than eggs and orange juice? Hash browns? Pancakes? Jesus, French toast?

Dean opened the fridge and stared at the mostly beer-and-finger-foods contents with some despair. How was he supposed to feed this person?

Before Dean could freak out too much, Sam stumbled into the room, bleary eyed. He'd changed out of the suit into something a little less formal, but he was still regrettably collared. Dean chewed on his bite, still eying his brother. It looked like Sam was still allergic to good old t-shirts. He was such a tragic child.

Casually, Sam swiped a cold slice from the box, munching on it thoughtfully. He was completely unaware of Dean's deep sigh of relief. He took Dean's offer for coffee with a nod and saluted him wordlessly with the mug, before trying to drown himself in it.

Dean smiled fondly at his brother. Sam may have grown up to be one of those stuffy lawyer types, but he was still Sammy at the core of him.

Dean's smile fell. Sammy.

"No Jess?" he asked casually.

"Let her sleep in," Sam said thickly after a moment. He polished off the slice and then started cupping the mug between his two hands. He was staring at his coffee with a bleak expression all too quickly, which made Dean wonder just what the hell he'd said wrong already.

Sucking in a deep breath, Dean pulled out one of the chairs and sat down. Across the table, Sam did the same, eyeing him for a moment as if to gauge his mood—like _he_ was the mine field. Ha!

Dean made a 'go on' gesture. "Out with it." He put the pizza box between them—neutral space.

Sam swallowed. "Ever feel like… like you're out of place? Like you're needed somewhere else?"

Dean spared a moment to think about what kind of existential hellhole California must be in order for him to start thinking like that. Or, hell, it was probably the car he drove. Or the hotel that both he and Bobby were so obviously reluctantly to go back to. Maybe he tied his tie on too tight yesterday. Did road trips drive him nuts?

But then Dean looked at Sam—really looked at him. Sam was looking back at him like he used to, like he was twelve and trying to figure out if he was doing something right. No matter how closely he followed Dean's example, though, he always managed to get it wrong, simply for the reason that Dean's idea of right and, say, his mom's didn't quite mesh.

"Nope." Sam's head dropped. Dean felt a little guilty because, well… Sam's question wasn't really a yes or no situation for Dean. Still, though. He was the big brother. He had a rep to maintain.

Chewing for a moment, Dean mentally examined his next question from all angles, trying to think of a tactful way to frame it. Nothing came to him, so he swallowed his bite and said thickly, "Does this have something to do with how you look at Jess like she's a ghost?"

Sam's eyes darted up from the table. "Jess talk to you?" he asked in a strained voice.

Dean made a dismissive noise. "What? No." He tried to laugh it off.

Sam winced. He looked away, eyeing the generic scenery pictures Dean'd nailed to the wall on Lisa's behest. He'd tried to take them down after they broke up—his mind full of ambitious ideas like neon beer signs—only to discover that he hadn't nailed them up right the first time around. And that, to take them down would meant to take down a lot of wall with them.

So up they stayed.

"She totally talked to you," Sam mumbled.

"Maybe a little," Dean admitted reluctantly "She's worried about you, Sam."

Sam sighed. He covered his face with his hands. His voice, when it came, was muffled by them. "I'm fine. I'm just… tired and stressed out. It'll go away eventually." This sounded like a mantra Sam was sick and tired of repeating.

"And the nightmares?"

Sam froze. His hands slowly fell from his face. "She told you that too?"

"What do you dream about?" Dean asked curiously. His mug paused halfway to his mouth, because Sam was staring at him suddenly, looking nothing like a little boy or a lawyer, or even really his own flesh and blood.

"Fire." Sam licked his lips. He stared at Dean unblinkingly, _intense_ all of a sudden. "Tight spots and pain and bright lights. Being… ripped apart and shoved back together and ripped apart again. And then there's this… hopelessness, knowing that I'm trapped for all eternity." He blinked suddenly, and he was Sam again, because he was offering Dean a smile, a way to laugh at this. "Got anything on that, Doctor Freud?"

Dean had watched just enough day time television to know what he was talking about. "That's very serious." Dean clasped his hands together, clearing his throat. "Clearly you have commitment issues. And a possible preoccupation with your penis."

Dean did good there, because Sam was laughing, snorting up his coffee. Dean smiled, watching as his brother muttered foul things in his general direction with a mega wattage smile, mopping up his mess with some napkins.

He'd do damn near anything to get that tragic look off of Sammy's face.

Including not letting his brother in on a few things. Dean clasped his hands just a tiny bit tighter, clamping down on every unvoiced question.

_Ever feel like you've walked into a conversation you've already heard because you've played it out in your head?_

_Ever feel like you know everything everyone is about to do, even when they're not in eye-shot?_

_Ever feel like you're being mentally stretched out in twenty directions all at once but you can't see the hooks tearing into your mind?_

_Ever feel like the only real person in the room is your baby brother, and occasionally your husband, but only when he's being an intense, intimidating son of a bitch?_

Dean got up and smiled at his brother. "More coffee?"

 

\-----

 

It was later in the afternoon and the Winchester house was full of people. Music strained in from the outside—mostly rock, but sometimes some of that girly pop shit when one of the kids started messing with the radio. Whatever music was playing, though, it was loud.

They'd have a noise complaint by now, but the neighbors loved them for some reason and never begrudged him this. Plus, most of them were already present. Dean's idea of family was pretty flexible, and this _was_ supposed to be a family reunion, after all.

Mentally calculating how many more hot dogs and hamburgers he'd need to feed the ravenous beasts that made up his guests, Dean rather thoughtlessly tossed on a clean apron before exiting the bathroom.

Of course, he nearly exited right on Sam's gigantic feet. Dean tossed up his hands, exasperated. "Dude! Some breathing space, please?"

Sam was eyeing him with a bewildered expression on his face. He nodded somewhat jerkily at Dean's chest. "That's, ah, very domestic of you."

Dean looked down and then burned red. "Blow me." He shoulder checked his brother out of the way. "It's practical, so shut your pie hole."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sam spreading his hands defensively. "I didn't say anything."

"Shut. Your. _Pie hole_."

For his sass, Sam was exiled to the kitchen, doomed to poke at boiling vegetables while Dean got to handle the kick-ass grill outside. He bitched loudly at Dean every once in a while through the open window. Pulling rank was _awesome_.

Ellen and Jo rolled up about an hour later, honking loudly and loaded with beer and alcohol, reminding everyone why the Harvelles were their favorite adopted family. Mary and John Winchester came out to greet them, which was the only reason Dean stayed on the grill.

It turned out to be a good idea. That sort of weak, shaky feeling he got when facing his parents only doubled around Ellen and Jo. Hell if he knew why. Thinking wasn't really Dean's thing, and he definitely did not want to poke at that.

So he did what he did best—he made sure everyone drank and ate and had fun, and he did it until there was nothing else left to do.

When he realized he was reaching unconsciously for a spatula or something, he forced himself to man up and entertain his guests.

As the night was winding down, they didn't need much entertaining, so he sat back, downed four more aspirin, and watched.

On the porch couch, Ash was showing Rufus something on his gargantuan, do-it-yourself laptop. Whatever it was, it had Rufus nodding enthusiastically every minute or so. Meanwhile, Ash's frown only deepened, as if he was getting the mental exercise of his life.

Further back in the yard, Lisa was sitting with Ben, occasionally putting her hand on his hair. She talked to Jo, who sat casually on top of a table, ignoring the periodic prods from her mother, who hissed that she should sit down like a normal person, god damn it.

Much further back, Bobby was sitting in a chair snatched up from one of the tables. His back was to a tree and he was watching everyone suspiciously. The more people laughed, the more Bobby seemed to sink into his chair. Dean frowned. He'd have to talk to Bobby, make sure he wasn't unhappy or something.

No one should be unhappy. Not here and not now.

Though, now that Dean thought about it, Sam wasn't much better. He kept on pulling that polite smile on Jess, speedily making a retreat whenever she pulled him aside. Dean sensed trouble in paradise, but couldn't understand the hows and whys of it. Jess was perfect.

Just as he thought that, Jess looked up at him. She was sitting with Mary and they were both just so beautiful. They both beamed cheerfully, wiggling their fingers at him. Dean smiled back, his eyes eventually drifting over their table.

He got up quickly, making for Pamela and Adam. He had remind her that just because Adam was legal didn't mean it was okay for her to perv on his little brother.

Adam would appreciate the interference… eventually.

Exhausted suddenly (his ass in pain from where Pamela had pinched him), he retreated for the kitchen. He felt like his brain had been shoved through a sieve. And, lo and behold, there was Sam, awkwardly folded into one of his kitchen chairs, looking as bad as Dean felt.

Sam watched with a broody expression as John walked out of the kitchen. Could they have gotten into a fight already? He looked at Sam a bit closer, but realized the expression was a little less like anger and a little more like grief. Then he looked again and Sam's face was a mask, no emotion present.

Dean wordlessly got him another beer, nodding idly at the appreciative grunt.

Before Dean could ask Sam what was wrong, the kitchen was invaded again—this time, by Bobby. The older man shot them a cross look. When they did nothing but stare back at him, confused, something tense in his face eased slightly.

"Is this where the real men are hanging out? Good, get me a beer, boy."

"Dad's a real man," Dean said defensively, getting up and walking over to the fridge. By the time he came back, Bobby was sitting in the free seat next to Sam, looking just as worn out and tired as his brother.

Bobby snorted, popping the cap off of the bottle. "Your daddy's discussing pie recipes with Rufus. He's lost his man card for the day." Bobby took a deep, fortifying swig of beer, and then said in a rushed, hurried voice, "Anyone else feel like they've fallen in the Stepford wife dimension?"

Sam suddenly straightened out of the slump he was in, his eyes lit up with the faintest ember of awareness. " _Yes_." He turned toward Bobby expectantly.

Bobby looked relieved—a little less tense, a little less nervous from before. "I knew _you'd_ agree with me," he said in a low voice. "Especially after what happened at the hotel-"

Dean's head shut up. "What happened at the hotel?" he demanded.

"Nothing," Sam snapped almost immediately. He turned, shooting Bobby a look. " _Nothing_."

Bobby grumbled into his beer, but didn't contradict Sam. So Dean turned and glared at his brother. Mulishly stubborn, his brother didn't budge. Sam just stared him down, his eyes daring Dean to push.

Finally, Dean shrugged and let it go, saying, "Everyone's fine. Everyone's _happy_."

Bobby leaned forward. "And that doesn't strike you as a little… odd?"

Sam nodded once. "Absolutely. The world is a miserable, horrible place."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Now that's the alcohol talking. Quit being so damn depressing." He started looking out over the party again through the kitchen window. "I think you all are just a-"

His words froze in his mouth, because Castiel was staring right back at him. His normally bright eyes were dark and intense. He was as still as a statue in the middle of the tables while everyone else was mobile and chatty. A wind picked up slightly, teasing at the candle flames at each table and tossing the edges of Castiel's trench coat to the side.

"What is it?" Bobby asked when he didn't continue.

"Cas," Dean choked out.

He looked away from his husband just for a second and, suddenly, he was there, at Dean's elbow. _Inside the freaking house_. Dean barely kept from jumping. Sam and Bobby, who were looking at each other, didn't get much warning.

"What are we discussing?"

They jerked out of their relaxed positions. Bobby looked mutinous all of a sudden, which was weird, because Bobby usually liked Castiel. And Sam? Shit, Sammy looked scared. Dean suddenly got the sense of being in the middle of something too big, too massive to understand for Dean Winchester—aka Joe Mechanic. But he couldn't pull his eyes away from Sammy's face, because that was his brother and, fuck, he only had knee jerk reactions when it came to Sammy and fear.

Dean found himself lying. "The porch." Dean smiled widely at Cas, feeling none of it—feeling nothing at all, really, except for a cold sense of dread. "I was telling them about how we built the porch last summer. And I haven't gotten to the best part yet, so don't say anything." Dean forced a smirk, wiggling his hand in the air. "So, guys, two words: Butter fingers."

Castiel's gaze pivoted abruptly to Dean, but the intensity had tapered off a bit. He looked raptured. Dean should freaking _live_ for looks like that. He didn't understand why it made him feel so uneasy now.

But, across the table, Sam was pulling a truly epic bitch face at him. "How is that the best part?"

So he told them about how they terrorized the neighbors by doing it themselves—and poorly at that. The do it themselves bit, that is. As it turned out, they were really good at terrorizing the neighbors. At one point in time, the lady a street down from them threatened to sue. Apparently, a nail gun sounds like a real gun when you were eighty and frail.

"But that's why I have you, right?" Dean clamped a friendly hand on his brother's shoulder. "My little brother, the super lawyer. Saving DIY delinquents, one grouchy neighbor at a time."

Sam looked uncomfortable."Dean…"

Dean pretended to sniffle, sharing a look with Bobby. "They grow up so fast."

Sam shoved his shoulder. "And you haven't grown up at all."

"I've grown up in all the right ways. Right, Cas?"

They all stopped to look up at Castiel. The man looked down at them, his intense expression clearing to something more serene. "Excuse me. I have business to attend to." With that, he turned around and left, his trench coat spreading behind him like a pair of great, tan wings.

The kitchen was silent for another minute or so before Sam shifted in his chair, making the wood groan. When Dean dragged his eyes back to his brother's face, he saw a whole slew of emotions—anger, fear, anticipation.

"How is that not weird?" Sam hissed, his fingers clenched in a fist over the table top.

Dean looked away again. "He's not feeling well. Lay off him."

"Dean," Bobby started to say, his tone chiding.

Dean pulled away from them, static buzzing in his ears. He tossed his half-empty bottle in the trash, avoiding their gazes. "We're done. _We never discussed this_." And then he left the kitchen, never looking back.


	8. Chapter 8

\-----

 

Chapter Eight

 

\-----

 

After Dean's abrupt dismissal of their worries, Sam took off and hid in the bathroom for twenty minutes, which was as long as it took for him not to want to punch anything anymore.

Sam should have been happy. He wasn't the only one who noticed things were off. He had Bobby on his side now, and Gabriel clearly knew something was up. Even if Sam couldn't remember what they talked about, a connection was clearly made—like meeting like.

But he wasn't happy at all because, damn it, _Dean_ noticed something was wrong too, and the stubborn bastard was trying to ignore it!

Being frustrated at his brother was hardly a novel experience, but it felt more like betrayal now—especially since, according to Loki, Dean was a part of the problem. Warden indeed.

Only one thought calmed his temper—Dean would never knowingly trap Sam somewhere without the best of intentions. Dean was sometimes a jerk, occasionally an asshole, but he was always, always a protective older brother. There was no off switch for that.

Seeing his brother in the living room, he approached him slowly. Whatever was going on, it wasn't Dean's fault. Dean didn't deserve Sam's anger.

Dean was deep in conversation with their other brother, Adam.

"How's your residency going?" Sam overheard.

Adam was shrugging. "It's, well-"

"Don't bother with specifics," Sam interrupted. He shot Dean a tight smile. "The only things Dean knows about hospitals is what he's picked up from Doctor Sexy, MD."

"Which is totally accurate," Dean declared. He, at least, seemed to be pretending to be in a good mood. Maybe Sam should leave him to it.

"Which is totally not." Sam turned to his brother, pressing his point. "All that sex in one hospital can't be sanitary."

Dean looked thoughtful, like hygiene never occurred to him. Sam turned to Adam, incredulous, but Adam was staring somewhere over his shoulder, his expression completely blank.

"Okay," Dean muttered under his breath. He looked up, smiling, and, instantly, Adam's expression shifted, becoming animated—like he'd never stopped.

"Sam's right," Adam said with a smile. "We're professionals, Dean." His tone was scolding, of all things.

Dean laughed, like he expected it. He patted Adam in a rough, brotherly way, something like praise falling out of his mouth, but Sam didn't hear any of it. He felt cold right down to the pit of his stomach.

His cell started buzzing like crazy in his pockets.

He got three texts in quick succession.

 _See that? I know you did._

 _Your brother's tired. Gaps are getting bigger._

 _Come outside_.

"I'm gonna get some air," he said to no one in particular.

He stumbled outside. By now, most of the people had gone on inside or gone on home. A few crowded around the radio, which softly crooned some wordless music, but the outside was basically free of Dean's numerous guests.

Save for the one uninvited guest no one saw when Castiel was around.

Gabriel was lounging in the grass near the edge of the yard. He was looking up at the stars with a musing expression on his face. A bottle of beer was tucked into his elbow and a cell phone rested lightly in the middle of his chest.

Gabriel was Loki.

Sam felt like he should have already known this.

Sam sank into the grass next to him. "Having fun crashing my family reunion?"

"Oh, you have no idea," Gabriel murmured. He was smirking. "I'm what they call a connoisseur of free alcohol."

"Yeah, right."

"Everything's just… perfect, isn't it?" Gabriel sighed. "Not a cloud in the sky. The moon's gorgeous. And there's not a hint of smog denying us that lovely, lovely view of the stars."

Sam looked up at the sky. He frowned suddenly as something pinged in his mind. "It was the full moon two weeks ago."

"What were you doing two weeks ago?" Before Sam could answer, Gabriel lifted a finger to his own lips, inviting silence. "Best not mention these things to Dean. For your own good."

Sam's eyes narrowed. "Why do you say that?"

Gabriel pushed himself up on one arm, idly flicking grass out of his hair. "Because you didn't remember me as your frat brother." He smirked. "At least, not until Dean made you."

"I hit my head," Sam said weakly.

Gabriel's smile lost its mocking edge. "Oh, Sam. I wish it was that easy." He patted Sam's bandaged hand lightly and then looked back up at the stars.

 

\-----

 

The party winded down about an hour later. Sam helped half-heartedly with some cleaning up before Dean banished him affectionately, ordering him a cab to the hotel.

"Maybe I should stay," Sam offered.

Dean stared at him, like he'd grown an extra head. "Why would I want you to stay in the same house as me and my husband?" His eyebrows rose. "My very, very sexy husband, who I plan on spending some 'quality time' with, if you catch my drift."

Sam cringed. "Okay, I get your point."

"Sex, Sammy, and lots of it."

"Dude!"

And that was basically it. Him and Bobby shuffling off to the hotel with no mention of the conversation they'd had in the kitchen.

Bobby met his eyes before they separated and went to their separate cars. "Should have told him about the hotel," he said in an undertone.

A hand curled into Sam's elbow. "What about the hotel?"

Sam tried not to flinch or cringe or do anything to give away how much he'd rather she didn't touch him. "Nothing, Jess." He removed her hand from his arm and then dangled his keys in front of her. "Meet you in the car?"

Jess smirked, snatching the keys. "I'll drive," she declared triumphantly, rising on the tips of her toes to press a kiss against the corner of his mouth. She settled back on her heels, poking his ribs with her finger. "Don't think I haven't noticed how much you've been drinking, mister!"

With that, Jess went off to the car, leaving Sam with the somewhat awkward position of confronting Bobby. Bobby was eyeing him with a strange look.

"Nice girl."

"Very."

Bobby licked his lips and said, hesitatingly, "I have no idea who she is."

"You wouldn't." Sensing the truth in this, Sam straightened slightly. "She's dead."

Bobby looked shocked. "You sure?"

Sam sighed, looking up at the night sky. "No. Maybe I'll _sleep on it_." Suddenly angry, Sam stalked to his car.

The faster they got to the hotel...

Well, who knew what would happen.

 

\-----

 

Sam tried to sleep, but it was damn near impossible. And it wasn't just because he had to lay next to Jess. It was also because he couldn't turn off his mind and quit thinking—quit wondering. The whys of everything were gonna drive him insane, if he wasn't already.

He needed some air.

He'd stepped out into the hallway in his sleeping clothes before he remembered, oh yeah, fucking looping _hallway_. Clenching his eyes shut, he turned and very lightly hit the wall with his head, growling in frustration.

"Why are you out here, Sammy?" Startled, Sam spun around. Gabriel was leaning against the opposite wall, his left eyebrow raised and his arms crossed over his chest. Just as Sam saw him, he quirked a smile and pulled away from the wall. "You _know_ this place doesn't go anywhere."

Sam met him in the middle. "Who the hell are you really, Loki? My patience, such that it is? It's running really fucking thin."

Gabriel smirked. He buffed his nails on his jacket. "I'm your guardian angel."

Sam's eyebrows jumped together. "Bull shit."

Gabriel pretended to be offended for a moment before waving his hand dismissively. "You're right. There is no such thing as guardian angels." Gabriel glanced down the hallway. "We don't have the time or the resources to perch on the shoulders of every damn human in this universe." His eyes jumped back to Sam, his mouth pulled in that mocking smile again. "But _you_. Now, you're special."

Sam didn't like the sound of that. He straightened to his full height. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said. "I'm just a lawyer." He had the expensive watch to prove it.

Gabriel stared at him for a moment before sighing. He raked a hand through his hair. "One step forward, two steps back. Isn't that right?" His expression turned serious. "You know something's wrong, right?"

"Are you-"

Gabriel lifted a finger to his lips. "Ssh." He took a step forward, narrowing the gap between them. "Pro tip: You say it out loud, someone will hear. Somehow, it will get back to Dean. Then tomorrow, you won't remember. It will be another blank spot, and you know how much those annoy you. That's how these things work."

Sam's teeth grinded together slightly. "Then I'll _write it down_."

Gabriel laughed at him, genuinely amused. "Sam, you're staying at a hotel that loops back on itself when it doesn't want you to leave. What makes you think that anything you write down will stay written?"

Sam blinked several times, then averted his eyes. After several drawn out moments of staring at the thin, worn out red carpet, his eyes moved back to Gabriel. "Whatever this is," he said quietly, gesturing minutely not just at the hotel but everything beyond it. "I want out."

Gabriel stuck his hands in his pockets, bobbing his head once. "I'm working on it."

"I don't trust you."

Gabriel laughed, tossing his head back. "Good, good!" he said with a nod. "Because, Sammy, there's something important you've gotta remember about me."

Something shifted. Part of it was just physical—how Gabriel was leaning forward a little bit. Part of it was psychological—the way Gabriel's smile fell from his eyes but not from his mobile mouth. Most of it, though, was something else, something that teased at the edge of his senses, plucking at his instincts frantically as if saying something was very, very wrong with the picture here.

It took Sam a second to realize what had changed, and why it was so strange. After so many cheerful, psychotically amused interactions, Gabriel was now radiating menace, _threat_. Or maybe just a very strongly worded promise.

Gabriel's eyes right then were very, very gold. "If I thought killing Dean would solve anything—anything at all? I'd do it in a heartbeat." The corner of his mouth quirked upwards slightly. "I've done it before."

Sam could sense the truth in that, and thus did not say anything because... fuck, _Dean_. He'd do anything to protect Dean—even stay in this warped reality. Hearing of some past hurt was terrifying.

After a moment of tense silence, Gabriel patted Sam's chest with both hands, suddenly jovial again. "Sleep tight!"

He snapped the fingers on his left hand and then he disappeared, right before Sam's eyes.

And, the worst part of it? Sam wasn't even surprised.


	9. Chapter 9

\-----

 

Chapter Nine

 

\-----

 

It was late, really late. So late that it was technically early. Dean would regretting the lack of sleep later on at work, but he would not regret having the party. He saw too little of his family as it was. He could handle one shitty day.

But he knew he'd be way tired when he came home from the shop, so he decided to finish cleaning up now, while he was still wired, rather than later when he was zombie-tired.

The fact that cleaning kept his mind occupied? Well, that was just a pleasant side effect, wasn't it? It wasn't like he had anything to think about. Nope, nothing at all.

Everything was peachy keen, and no one could tell him otherwise.

He managed to keep up this particular mindset for a while, but it wasn't made to last.

Just as Dean had finished cleaning up for the night, Castiel strode in through back door. At least, that was what Dean assumed he did. All he knew for sure was that he'd turned away to close the dishwasher and turned back, only to see Cas about two feet away, silent as a sneaky cat.

Dean didn't even get a chance to complain because Castiel was suddenly talking. "I enjoy your stories."

Dean frowned at him, thrown by statement. "My stories?" he echoed.

Castiel nodded. "Yes. Justifications for this and that. The whys and hows of everything. It is not a unique gift of humanity, but I enjoy your use of it." Looking curious, he cocked his head to the side. "How did we meet?"

Dean stared at him in complete disbelief before laughing. How drunk did Cas have to be not to remember how they met? It was pretty epic, after all. Castiel didn't join in his amusement, however, simply staring at Dean musingly.

Wondering if this was Castiel's awkward stab at flirting, Dean smiled and said, "You gripped me tight and raised me from Perdition." The inviting look in Castiel's suddenly disappeared. Dean stepped back reflexively. It felt very, very cold in the room.

Dude. It was a _joke._

Dean found himself rushing to explain. "Perdition Road? There was a flood, and the Impala… You dislocated my shoulder, pulling my ass out of there!"

"Ah." The vaguely pleasant look reappeared in Castiel's eyes, but it seemed less genuine, like Cas was distracted and couldn't be bothered to try a little harder. "Interesting parallels. There must be a part of you that doesn't wish to forget me entirely."

It was strange how such casual words could sound so sinister. Dean shuddered, averting his eyes. That was how it happened, wasn't it? The rain, the Impala, Perdition Road...

Dean let out an unsteady breath, and then shook his head. He closed the distance between the two of them. "You're… You're really drunk," he decided. Clapping his hands on Castiel's shoulders once, he turned away. "To bed with you."

Cas didn't seem inclined to move.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Come on," he muttered, grabbing his hand and pulling him up the stairs. Castiel resisted for half a second before bowing his head and letting Dean pull him along. About half way up the steps, Dean registered a lack of metal around one of Castiel's fingers and looked down to double check.

No ring.

Dean tightened his grip on Castiel's hand. It bothered him. It bothered him a lot. But could he really be the sort of guy who bitches at that sort of thing?

Dean was just drunk enough to admit it, to give words to the worry that had steadily been building in his head—he was panicking. More importantly, he was _losing_ Cas, inexorably, totally. He was slipping beyond Dean's reach.

Some calm part of him that dimly noted that a decade was a rather long time to be exclusive, and that maybe Cas was getting bored. Dean didn't like that, but, hey, _he got that_.

Somehow, though, Dean felt like it was bigger than that, more important than simple boredom—like, instead of losing Cas to the general population, he was instead losing Cas to himself, like Cas was losing his grip on his sanity, and Dean was only just starting to notice.

God. He was a terrible friend.

Husband. He meant husband.

Quietly, fretfully, he led Cas into the bedroom, closing the door behind them. Once they were both inside, he turned around and pulled Cas into a hug.

"What do you want, Cas?" Dean asked, pressing his head against Castiel's bony shoulder. "Tell me and I'll give it to you."

Castiel hesitated, but then he reciprocated the gesture, pressing his palms flat against Dean's back. His lips pressed against the curve of Dean's ear. "Pledge your loyalty and fealty. And I will give you everything you have ever wanted."

Dean froze completely. He pulled back from the embrace, staring at Castiel. There was a voice ringing out in his head, ominous and quiet and ringing with the poignancy of a terrible memory.

 _I'm your new god. A better one._

He blinked and suddenly an image flashed before his eyes—broken tile, blood everywhere, and Cas, his face, just like it was now, cold and uncaring and demanding.

Dean felt like ice water had just been dumped over his head. He shoved away from Cas—not that Cas moved.

"I don't need everything," Dean snapped. He yanked the bit of metal from his hand and threw it at Cas. "And what the hell, Cas? Did you forget what this is?"

Cas had caught it easily. He eyed the thing with an alien curiosity. "It is a ring."

"It is our ring." Angry, Dean snatched it up from his hand, shaking it in his face. "It's our pledge, loyalty and fidelity to _each other._ "

 _You will bow down and profess your love unto me._

Dean suddenly felt sick. He staggered away from Castiel, just… hurting. Everywhere. "I don't want to talk to you until you remember why we got married in the first place."

Castiel looked frustrated for a moment, but then his face smoothed out. He bowed his head slightly. "My apologies."

Dean turned around so he didn't have to watch him go, but that didn't stop the memory from playing out. He climbed into bed wearily as that familiar, loved voice rose in his head with the indifference of a stranger.

 _You will bow down and profess your love unto me. Or I shall destroy you._

Dean made a noise deep in his throat and buried his head under his pillow.

 

\-----

 

It was three o'clock—the real witching hour, according to some. To Sam, it was just an ungodly time in the morning when most people should really be asleep—most people including the jackass who was currently pounding on his door.

Sam glared at the red digits of his clock for another moment before groaning and rolling out of his side of the bed. He glanced back reflexively, but Jess hadn't reacted to his movement. Her back was to him and, as far as he could tell, she was deeply asleep.

At least someone was.

Rubbing at his eyes and grumbling, Sam opened the door. He blinked and then squinted at the man in front of him, his sleepy mind struggling to Name That Face.

Oh. Gabriel.

The shorter man sighed, looking pointedly at his watch. "Tick tock tick tock, Sam. We're on a time limit, a very busy schedule." He looked around Sam's shoulder, suddenly intrigued. "I can understand why you'd want to wait though. Damn, she is cute…"

Sam looked over his shoulder. Jess was watching from the bed, a look of confusion on her face. She'd lifted herself half-up, as if to join them. Sam smiled at her and made a gesture to show she didn't need to bother.

He crowded Gabriel back out into the hallway, growling, "Don't leer at my girlfriend." He closed the door behind him.

"Okay, big guy, okay. No need to get rough. Unless you want to."

Sam rolled his eyes and made as if to go back into his room. "Get lost, Gabriel."

"Wait." One hand on his chest. That was all it took to keep him still. Sam was so unused to being around people who didn't feel hollow. Dean, Bobby, and now Gabriel. He had no defenses for it.

Gabriel was looking up at him, no trace of a smirk on his face. "In all seriousness, Sam. We need to go. Now. Casanova's ego's been foiled by your brother's bigger one. He's retreated for now, licking his wounds. This may our only chance to get you out."

Sam tried to understand—he tried really hard. "You do realize that you make absolutely no sense, right?"

Gabriel shrugged. "You want to leave, don't you?" He hesitated, then said, "You might want to kiss your girlfriend goodbye."

Sam couldn't think of anything he wanted to do less. He could barely stand to be in the same bed with her. Fortunately, she never questioned the pillow he placed between them when his awkward attempts to get a cot were foiled.

He didn't move from his spot, choosing to stare down at Gabriel mulishly as if challenging him to change Sam's mind.

"When you remember everything, you might regret being so quick to do that."

"It wouldn't be real."

"What is _real_ , anyhow?" Gabriel shrugged, smirking. "You and me, we're not real. Not here, anyway." Gabriel cocked his head to the side. "Tell me. How does it feel, kissing your girlfriend?"

Sam glared. Gabriel was going too far. "Mind your own damn business."

Gabriel ignored him. "Feels a little off, don't it? A little unreal, a little insubstantial. Like trying to live off whipped cream for the rest of your life. Sure, the first five minutes are awesome, but for the rest of eternity? Sheesh."

Sam shifted his weight uncomfortably. He lowered his voice. "Look, you- I don't care how we know each other. But, if you bring Jess into this, I swear to God-"

"Which one?" Sam stared at him, not comprehending. Gabriel sighed loudly, rolling his eyes to the sky. "Sammy boy, you have a lot to catch up on." Gabriel licked his lips, staring at his shoes for a moment. "Give me a sec to make my point, will ya?"

Sam didn't have the time to respond because, suddenly, he was shoved back into the door. He froze for a minute because, Jesus Christ, Gabriel's mouth was wet and forceful and knowing, and then Sam was exploding into action, heart pounding wildly in his chest as he forced Gabriel across the narrow hallway and back into Bobby's door and held him there with his body, fingers threading Gabriel's tawny hair.

Gabriel pulled back after a while, his eyes wild and his breath beating hotly over Sam's throbbing mouth. Somewhere in the back of Sam's mind, he was savoring that look of vulnerability, because he just knew that he'd never seen that expression before.

It was a fleeting one. Shields slammed up quickly, rawness concealed under bravado, and Gabriel was smirking at him again.

"Feels real, doesn't it?" Gabriel wiggled his eyebrows up and down. "Still isn't, though."

Sam was trembling minutely. What. The. Hell. "I don't-"

The door opened—Bobby's door. He looked pissed. "Whatever you're doing, boy, you'd better-" When he saw who it was, he looked surprised. "Sam!"

Sam choked, embarrassed all of a sudden. Gabriel, on the other hand, merely grinned gleefully.

And that, really, should have been the thing to alert Sam.

"Hi, Bobby!" Gabriel greeted. He ducked his head slightly, faking a sad face. "Bye, Bobby."

Then he was pulling a long, silver thing out of his sleeve—a knife?—and burying it into Sam's adopted uncle's chest.

There were no one word for how Sam felt then. Shock, maybe. Horror warred for second place with a misplaced sense of betrayal.

Maybe less attention should be paid to his feelings and more should be paid to his actions, because the second Gabriel shoved that thing into Bobby's chest, Sam was shoving him out of the way—too late, too late. But he caught Bobby as he was going down.

Someone made a desperate, quiet noise—that someone, Sam realized, was him.

"Bobby…" Bobby was choking on his own blood, bleeding all over the pale carpet floor. He clutched at Sam's shirt, trying to say something. " _Bobby_."

Gabriel leaned on the door frame, idly cleaning his silver stake thing. "The thing about blood magic is that it's rarely ever pleasant," he said mildly. There was an apology there—like _sorry_ would ever be enough.

"Shut up!" Sam roared, clutching at Bobby. "You killed him, you son of a-"

Without any real warning, Bobby flickered out of existence, leaving no trace of anything, not even blood. Sam was left grasping at air, feeling as raw as an open wound. He was nearly choking on his disbelief, his reluctant and hesitant _relief_ —because this meant that Bobby wasn't really dead, right? _Right_?

Gabriel patted the top of his head. "Real, not real," he murmured, running a hand through Sam's hair. He crouched down next to Sam, running his thumb over the wetness at the corner of Sam's eye—tears. He pressed his hand just enough so that Sam's head turned and their eyes made contact. "It's all relative, isn't it?"

Gabriel looked awfully patient—awful, because Sam still couldn't get the image of Bobby's stabbing out of his head.

"It's a dream, Sam," Gabriel explained. "And it's not even yours." He paused, and then pressed their foreheads together. "How about we crawl out of this rabbit hole and make it to the real world, huh? There's only so long I can stay in his noggin without You Know Who catching on."

Sam was breathing hard. He sagged slightly where he was kneeling. He was worn out—by everything. By the strain of trying to hold everything together, by the apparently not real death of someone he cared about. He cleared his throat, pulling away so he could stand. He rubbed his sleeve over his eyes and staggered slightly back, slightly away from the man in front of him.

When he opened his eyes, Gabriel was still there. Waiting. Sam swallowed, reflexively focusing on the threat, the weapon in Gabriel's hand.

The very familiar weapon.

And then suddenly there was light, _epiphany_. A memory of who Gabriel had been, etched out across a hotel room floor. _Angel_.

"I prayed for you," he whispered thickly. "When you died."

The expression that flickered over Gabriel's face was complicated. His eyes rounded and his mouth softened. For a moment, he looked conflicted. Then something shuttered over it all, transforming his look of surprise to full on determination. He stood from his crouching position, idly flicking imaginary dust from his sleeve.

"I know," Gabriel said with a nod. He was closing the distance between the two of them, one small step at a time. "I heard you. All the way down in Purgatory." Once close enough, he curled his fingers in the sleeve of one of Sam's arms. His other hand pressed point of his weapon to Sam's heart. He looked apologetic. "Sam. Are you ready?"

Sam cleared his throat and then closed his eyes—and then opened them again, because there was no way that was going to happen. "Get it over with," he said tersely.

Gabriel smiled. There was nothing even remotely mocking about it. And then there was a flash of silver and, oh God, _so much pain_.

And then, finally, he woke up.


	10. Chapter 10

\-----

 

Chapter Ten

 

\-----

 

Castiel bounded down the stairs that next morning. He was wearing a black tie over a navy t-shirt and his ring was back on his finger. He hummed lightly to himself, looking distracted.

Dean's hands tightened around his cup of coffee.

Castiel stepped into the kitchen, adjusting his watch. He saw Dean at the very last moment and changed his trajectory, stopping in front of Dean just long enough to grip his biceps briefly and give him the morning kiss any guy would marry for. When Cas dropped back on his heels, he was smiling very, very slightly, as was his way.

It was enough to make Dean's memory (his memory of a nightmare) seen far off and silly.

Still, though. John didn't raise no fool.

"What about yesterday?" Dean had to ask.

Castiel cocked his head in confusion, and then his expression went blank in a way that made hard pits form in Dean's stomach. "I am sorry. I was drunk, as you said. Everyone has been stressed."

Weak response. Dean should know. He'd been using them every damn day of his damn life.

He managed a smile for Cas—this Cas, who certainly wasn't the Cas he'd talked to yesterday. "Sure. Have a good day."

Dean didn't stop smiling until Castiel was no longer in the house. When he was gone—finally, finally gone—Dean let himself sag against the wall. He rubbed a shaking hand over his eyes.

He knew he did not see that—that _Stepford_ transformation. Worse, it wasn't even new. He'd seen it on the faces of everyone he'd talked to the night before, right before they said something more agreeable to him.

He thought they'd just been humoring him, but, _fuck_. He knew something was wrong— _knew_ it. He ignored it, though, letting alcohol explain everything away, and now what did he have?

A Stepford Cas. Shit. Sam was right. Bobby too. Something _was_ wrong with Cas—with everybody. _Shit_.

But _wait_. Wait just a damn moment. _Sam_ didn't pull that Stepford shit, nor did Bobby. No, they said everything he didn't want to hear, did things he didn't want them to do. They were outside of this, whatever it was. Maybe he could talk to them about it.

Goddamn, maybe it was something in the water. Maybe he was immune.

The very next thing he did that morning was contact Sam. He listened in disbelief as Sam spouted all the words of reassurance Dean wanted to hear, all that coddling Stepford bullshit Dean could get from anyone else, _everyone else_.

"Cas is just stressed," Sam was saying calmly. "With the whole bible camp thing. You know?"

Dean rubbed his forehead, sensing an impending headache. "Maybe you and Bobby and Jess can come over and have breakfast here." He didn't really know why he was asking.

Maybe he wanted a distraction. Maybe he didn't want to be alone. Maybe he could talk them into staying a little longer and keep him company until he could figure this shit out.

Sure, he could come up with something convincing. Hell, he could tell Sam the truth, say, 'don't leave me alone with him', and Sam would be guarding his door with a shotgun like a farmer with his daughter. Sam was like that.

"Bobby already left for South Dakota. But Jess and I could come over," Sam offered.

Dean sighed. "That'd be great, thanks." He paused, and then said, "But just you. I like Jess and all, but some things need to stay between brothers, you understand?"

More like, Dean had no way of knowing how to face Jess—pretty, smart, perfect Jess—if he turned out to be hilariously wrong about all of this. Sam, on the other hand... Dean was used to making an ass out of himself in front of his little brother.

"No problem," Sam said cheerfully. "I'll be there in a jiffy."

It would only be later that Dean would think back to this conversation and wonder _jiffy? Really?_ But it would be a fleeting thought, as the current conversation he was be trying to hold with his brother would be equally, if not more disturbing.

When Dean opened the front door, Sam was smiling openly at him and, really, that should have been Dean's first clue that Sam wasn't immune to the Stepford-making drinking water.

"Sam, we gotta-"

Sam suddenly enveloped him in a huge hug. On Dean's front porch. In front of _everyone._ "I love you."

"Can it with the chick flick moments," Dean muttered, indulging himself in the hug for a moment before shoving his brother away. "Did someone slip happy pills in your Wheaties this morning?" More forebodingly, he demanded, "Did you drink the water?"

"You were right. You're always right." Sam sighed hugely. "I'm just… taking everything way, way too seriously. I'm gonna try and lighten up a bit." He nudged Dean with a sweet smile. "Be a little bit more like you."

Dean frowned at him. "That an insult?"

Sam blinked at him. "Why would it be?"

Dean stared at him for a little while longer. There was 'yanking your chain' innocence and the genuine 'no, Dean, I really can't remember if I packed the shaving cream'. And Sam, right here and now? This shit was _genuine_ , and it left Dean feeling cold suddenly—cold and _nauseous_ , like someone had told him his dog had gotten run over, and the grief hadn't kicked in yet.

"You're happy?" Dean asked in a hoarse voice.

"Yes. Everyone's happy." Sam shrugged, like this should be self-evident. "Aren't you?"

 _Not really._ Dean shook his head. "Of course. But why?"

"Why?" Sam frowned at him. "Why are we happy?" He laughed, shrugging in confusion. "Because life is… perfect. That's all."

That was about when Dean tuned out of the rest of the conversation, because this shit wasn't going to fly.

He wasn't an asshole. It wasn't like he didn't want Sam to be pleased with life. In fact, there was a huge, gigantic _girly_ part of him that just wanted Sam to be happy and succeed in life and marry the woman of his dreams. But there was also a small part—a itty bitty vengeful part grounded in stark realism—that realized that Sam couldn't have that. That Sam couldn't sustain that, for one reason or another.

It was that small, realistic part of them that cheered silently when Sam left to get ready for the drive back to California.

The more distance between the two of them, the better, Dean decided.

Hopefully the water's effect would wear off there and his brother could go back to being a moody emo bitch.

He wanted that Sam back. He _liked_ that Sam.

It was nearing three in the afternoon, the start of Dean's shift. Sighing heavily, Dean cleaned up the minor breakfast spills he'd avoided until then before walking over to the hooks near the front door. He pocketed his car keys and then snagged his work shoes from the porch, coming back inside momentarily just to put them on.

The air fluttered behind him just as he sat on a chair. "Dean."

Dean flinched. His shoe slipped from his hand and fell to the floor. He leaned over and picked it up, saying grumpily, "Why aren't you are work?"

Castiel rounded the chair quietly. "I wasn't aware I had work."

Dean looked up from his shoes and then did a double-take. Well. Hark the return of Trench Coat Cas, in all his douche-y glory.

Remembering that pledge fidelity crap, Dean's jaw tightened. He turned his eyes away from Cas. Yeah, he quite happily pledged 'till death do us part' but he had a feeling Castiel's new demand was something else entirely—something darker, more complicated than a marriage vow.

"I'm gonna go to work," Dean said, tying the last set of laces. He stood, pushing up from the chair, but then paused, struck with that sense of hopelessness again.

Castiel was standing right in front of him, but he was slipping away, somehow, like sand foundation in a storm.

Castiel's eyes were narrow. There was nothing remotely friendly—or familiar—about his current expression. "Where is your brother?"

Dean frowned, realizing he never figured out what happened between Cas and Sam. He shrugged it off. The water situation likely complicated things anyway. "Hotel, probably. Then he's leaving for California."

Castiel's expression cleared. "You didn't know," he murmured, as if to himself.

Dean's jaw tightened. "Know what?" he demanded.

Castiel watched him carefully, but never answered the question.

Realizing that, yeah, Castiel really wasn't going to respond, Dean sighed loudly. This too also failed to get a response.

So Dean gave up.

Quickly, something like grief building up in a huge knot in his chest, Dean leaned in and brushed a kiss against Castiel's stubbly cheek. "See you at dinner."

Shamefully, as he let himself out, he found himself missing Stepford Cas.

At least Stepford Cas gave a damn about what he said.


	11. Chapter 11

\-----

 

Chapter Eleven

 

\-----

 

Sam stared at the ceiling, still stuck in a loop of disbelief.

He was awake—finally, finally awake. As far as he could tell, it had been only a week since he'd gone under, which should have killed him. However, somehow and someway, Castiel had made sure that they stayed alive.

Sustained was a far cry from well nourished, though. His first hour awake, he wasted by gulping down water until he was sick. Once he was done retching, he ate. Nothing tasted quite as delicious as that cheeseburger Gabriel brandished in front of his nose, and Sam hated cheeseburgers.

Mostly, though, he slept. Dream walking had nothing on restful sleep. The way he understood it, the dream had been more like a coma, and in all respects too, including his unwilling participation.

Sam rose from the bed when he heard murmuring voices—a strange event in a household he'd only heard to be quiet. Cheery, but faded yellow wallpaper met his sight first, then the white paint of the thin bedroom door. He approached it as quietly as possible, the wooden floor under his feet threatening to betray him and his every step.

He opened the door carefully, straining to hear the conversation.

Gabriel's voice rose from downstairs, faint and slightly muffled. "Not gonna help me with Dean, are you?"

Despite his aching weariness, Sam stood up straighter, because this was _Dean_ they were talking back. On quick, light feet, he approached the top of the stairs, crouching slightly to minimize the chance of detection.

Gabriel and his guest were out of sight—probably in the dining room, which was further back in the house. Sam could see the living room and kitchen clearly from his position, and they were both empty. Sam crept cautiously down the stairs.

The other voice was female and slightly familiar. "It was hard enough to retrieve those two from under the nose of that _thing_ 's loyal subjects. It would be impossible to retrieve the other boy." The cool confidence of the woman's voice broke slightly with desperation. "You really think something that powerful would allow you to take away its most beloved possession? Loki, it is foolishness."

Sam reached the entrance of the dining room and peeked in. He saw Gabriel first. The man—the _angel_ —was gripping the back of a finely crafted wooden chair. He looked grim. "We'll get him back. With or without you. He's sort of pivotal to the success of all this."

Sam's hand tightened into a fist. Son of a bitch. What happened to 'I'd kill him if it helped'? Was that just to get a rise out of Sam?

"Without me, then." Heels clicked across a wooden floor, and then suddenly the female speaker came into his line of sight. It was Kali. She wore a form fitting red dress that flared out around her knees. Her heels were tall enough and sharp enough to be lethal weapons—and, knowing her, they probably were.

Kali paused in front of Gabriel, cupping his cheek with one hand. His eyes lifted away from the table and he gazed back at her with a serious look.

Whatever Kali saw there must have bothered her, because she sucked in a shaky breath, her hand disappearing from his face. "You've died once," she said briskly, walking away from him. "Please do not do it again."

Sam ducked into the kitchen right as she exited, hiding from view. He stayed in there, back pressed into the wall, until the front door shut behind her.

He gave it five more seconds, then entered the dining room. Gabriel was still there, still gripping the chair. He looked exhausted.

Gabriel looked up just as Sam approached the table. He looked genuinely surprised. "How ya feelin', Sammy?"

"I feel nothing," Sam said in a low voice, hands tightening on the edge of the table, "but a great desire to pull your halo around your neck and _choke you with it_."

Gabriel's eyes rose warningly. "Hey, now. I'm the only reason why you're not a _drooling, seizing mess_ right now, Hell Boy. You could show a little gratitude."

Sam ignored him. His anger was moving forward now, away from the Dean issue—because, by now, he was used to people threatening Dean. He was used to _Gabriel_ doing it too. A hundred Tuesdays didn't just disappear because no one else remembered it, but Sam had had _time_ to deal with that—time and distance.

This other thing, though... Sam gritted his teeth.

"Dead. You were dead. I thought- _We_." Sam swallowed hard. He stared at the table. "We thought we'd killed you by making you choose sides."

"No one made me do anything."

"Even so!" Sam snapped. He licked his lips. "You. You were dead— _dead_ —the last time I checked." His mind kept on looping back to that scene—Gabriel, plastered out on the floor, his wings an ashy trace across the wood.

"You mean to tell me that you went back to that hotel?" Gabriel's voice was suddenly sharp. Sam was jerked out of his thoughts by the abruptness of it. "While _Lucifer_ was still hanging around?"

"Went back?" Sam echoed with disbelief, not understanding why Gabriel was mad. He had no right to be mad. _Sam_ was mad. There could only be one.

Fuming, Sam ending up shouting, "I _buried_ you, you asshole!"

Life didn't give Sam very many opportunities to startle angels. Lucifer, of course, had been the big one, but, oh, how he'd suffered for that one. Since Gabriel was unlikely to let Sam burn in holy hellfire, Sam figured he couldn't be blamed for kinda relishing that wide open expression of surprise on that normally unflappable face.

Gabriel covered his reaction quickly, though. He always did. He smiled flirtatiously. "Well, gosh, Sammy. If I knew you cared so much, I would have called."

Frustrated, Sam groaned. He pulled out a chair and sank into it. He was really not in the mood to beat around the bush. "What the hell's going on here, Gabriel?"

The smile abruptly fell from Gabriel's face. He shrugged with one shoulder and traced symbols into the table top. "The end is nigh. Well, sort of."

"What are you talking about?"

"Free will, Sam." Gabriel shrugged again, oddly avoidant. "Free will and the Casinator's rise to godhood. Him devouring souls, being all powerful. Declaring himself. Come on, you were there. Catch up already."

"That actually happened?" Sam shifted uncomfortably. It seemed like a bad dream. "With Raphael and Crowley?"

"Yup."

Sam was still so confused—less amnesiac, but still confused. "But we were just in Kansas."

"Yup. Well, nope." Gabriel pulled out a chair, sitting down with him. "See, you were in something that looked like Kansas. But it wasn't. It was a dream in somebody's head. _Dean's_ , to be specific."

"How'd we get from Castiel to Dean's head?"

Gabriel folded his hands in front of him, making a face. "Cas told your brother to bow."

"I remember that." Sam frowned. "He said he was the new God, or something. What happened after that?"

Gabriel smirked, the expression a little bitter. "Your brother told him to go to Hell. As you can imagine, our new Lord didn't like that. But... you know Cas. He's got a mental affliction where your brother is concerned. He interpreted Dean's rather stupidly heroic rejection as a mildly stated request for proof that Castiel is the God worth bending over for." Gabriel sighed gustily, propping his chin up on his palm. "Cas thinks that if he can throw Paradise and perfection at your brother's feet, your brother will suddenly declare his eternal love and devotion—because that absolutely sounds like the Dean Winchester I know." Sam did not smile at this— _did not_. Gabriel continued, saying, "But Castiel isn't entirely stupid. He knows perfection is a subjective concept, and that Dean despises the actual Paradise—as do you, which just shows how ungrateful you apes are, really."

"Get to the point," Sam muttered darkly.

Gabriel shot him an annoyed look. "Cas plopped you, Dean, and Bobby in Dean's head so you could experience perfection—as defined by Winchesters—and so he could see it and replicate it on the outside." Gabriel made a face. "Eventually. I don't exactly know his timetable for this plan. It's also possible that he wanted to keep you contained until he finished taking over the world and all. Since you two Neanderthals tend to throw a wrench into that sort of thing."

Sam rubbed his forehead. He was struggling to get everything straight. "So all that… the reunion, Dean, Jess… that was a figment of my imagination?" Sam had to double-check, because... because he was still _questioning_ himself, even now, even in this reality that just felt so _right_.

Gabriel was shooting him a pitying look, like he was reading Sam's mind and knew why he was asking. "Most of those people are dead, Sam. Damn near all of them, in fact. So what do you think?" Gabriel looked away after a moment. "And it wasn't your imagination. It was Dean's. That's why things didn't always match up for you—like your girlfriend." Gabriel sighed. "As for the other things, like the hotel… Dean's exhausting himself to keep his house together. He can't just have you traipsing all around Lawrence, doing tourist stops and what not. Do you understand now?"

Sam was quiet for a moment. Everything about that place had been a lie. This shouldn't have come as a surprise to him—didn't, actually—but there was still a sense of loss, a sense of missed opportunities.

Sure, the whole damn thing had been a lie, but... couldn't he have just enjoyed it a bit? Couldn't he have pretended that everything was perfect and excellent? Couldn't he have been _happy_ , for once?

He couldn't even blame Gabriel for this. The only person who kept Sam from enjoying Dean's dream was Sam himself.

Jesus. _Dean_.

Sam sat up quickly in his chair. "There's one thing I still don't understand." He hesitated, and then said, darkly, "Where the hell is my brother?"

 

\-----

 

If one more person said, "Hey, Dean!", Dean was gonna start busting some kneecaps. He could _not_ take their cheery shit—not now and not today. Not when the entire city of Lawrence was under the attack of a brainwashing substance.

Shit, where were the Navy SEALs when you needed them, right?

Of course, Dean wasn't no goddamn action hero. He was Joe Mechanic, and he was damn good at his job. Fixing cars, that's what he knew how to do. He didn't _save_ people, and especially not from mind altering substances.

Worse things could happen to the world than people acting uncharacteristically happy, he told himself.

It wasn't like he liked it or anything. He just didn't know what to _do_. And it wasn't like he could ask for help. The smartest person he knew was probably making flower chains and putting them in his girlfriend's hair, the peppy fucker.

Sam wasn't the only one pissing Dean off either. Across the shop, there were the expected sounds of metal hitting metal, of machines working, of the radio belting out tunes. Normally, there'd also be the sound of men cursing and spewing vile lies, but that was strangely absent. The guys were being horrifically cheery today. One of his coworkers was humming along with the music while another chatted with a customer about their kids.

God, everyone was being so damn annoying today.

Someone reached under the car he was working on and handed him a cold soda without his prompting. Grudgingly, he took it, pressing it against his sweaty forehead. The sharp chill helped a little with his headache, he noted grudgingly.

So the guys were being annoying, and possibly wonderful today. Whatever.

Dean spent a few more moments feeling pleased before rapidly coming back to himself. He resisted the urge to smack himself, because there was no reason to celebrate the fact that he had Stepford coworkers, for Christ's sake. He always wanted friends he could work with on the job and pal around later with, but this was going too far. He wondered if they would support a shift to an all beer diet. That should get them off the tainted water.

Annoyed again, Dean rolled out from under the car—and right between Castiel's legs.

Dean froze, awkwardly clutching the soda can to his chest. Castiel just stared down at him impassively.

Dean frowned. "Hi...?"

"Hello, Dean." After a moment, Castiel stepped to one side and then crouched down next to him, his coat sliding over the grease streaked ground. Hesitantly, he closed a hand over Dean's ankle. He seemed vaguely triumphant about that, which was just plain weird.

Dean cautiously sat up on the creeper, gripping one side to make sure it didn't roll away.

When Castiel's eyes finally stopped moving over the contents of the shop (he always seemed fascinated by these things), they fixated on him—blue, intense, and all too knowing. But, as Dean noticed quickly, more familiar and friendlier than they'd looked in days.

"I thought of why I would make such a vow," Castiel said evenly.

Dean's mouth was dry. "Huh?" Then it hit him. "Oh! Marriage?" Castiel nodded. "Oh. What did you come up with?" Dean laughed, trying to make it a joke. "Why on Earth would you marry me in the first place?"

Castiel's gaze was very steady. "Because I love you."

All air went out of Dean's chest. Dean felt a hundred feet tall and, at the same time, about two inches short. Something about that abrupt statement seemed so... _monumental_ , somehow.

"Really." His voice was very, very quiet. "Still?"

"Always," Cas promised.

Dean's eyes were burning— _allergies_ , damn it. He averted his gaze. "Well, you know. Me too." He cleared his throat, glancing at Castiel cautiously. "It's why I married you. It's why you're here. It's—look, I'm not the type to honor and obey, right?"

Castiel looked amused. "Of this, I am aware."

"Even so-" Dean said grumpily. He gestured at Castiel with a grease covered hand. "Even so, you… You're the best thing that ever happened to me. That's… uh. That's all."

Castiel seemed pleased, but also frustrated. "Then what is it you wish of me?" His hand tightened on Dean's ankle.

Dean could only answer that plea with the truth. "I want us to go back the way we used to be."

Castiel sighed, his shoulders slumped. This seemed to be an old argument to him, but Dean hardly remembered voicing it—to anyone. He'd thought it, for sure. "Dean… some things cannot be put back."

"Why not?" Dean asked stubbornly.

"Dean."

"I mean, hell, might as well try."

"I will _not_ ," Castiel snapped. There was no budging, no compromise on this, not even for Dean.

Dean stared at him for a moment before saying coolly, "Then we don't have anything to discuss, do we."

He probably couldn't have hurt Cas worse, even if he took a spanner to his head. Castiel blinked wounded, puppy dog eyes at Dean before ducking his head slightly and sighing. "I suppose not." He paused, and then leaned forward on one knee, touching Dean's face with one hand. "One of these days, you will see things my way, Dean Winchester," he whispered into Dean's ear before pressing a very light kiss on Dean's cheek—a mirror to the one Dean gave him that morning.

As if aware of Dean's sudden anxiety, Castiel pulled away. His fingertips released Dean's face slowly, tracing down Dean's cheek and over his jaw. He retreated slowly, looking regretful—but not enough, damn it. Not enough.

Castiel stood, not a mark of grease on him, and then, all of a sudden, he disappeared into thin air, like he was never there. One minute, he was present. The next, he was gone.

And, damn it, Dean wasn't surprised. All he could think about is why Castiel hadn't done it much sooner.

Dean closed his eyes. He felt very, very cold. "I won't bow," he whispered, shaking. "I _won't_."

No one replied.


	12. Chapter 12

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Chapter Twelve

 

\-----

 

Sam stared at the television, feeling a mixture of horror and fascination.

They were squatting in an empty house. It was the first place Gabriel had zapped them to after waking them up from Dean's dream. Sam and Bobby spent most of the time in an exhausted sleep nearly bordering on a coma. While Bobby was still recovering, Sam took the time to check out their hideout—because they were hiding, weren't they?

It was a pretty comfortable place, for a hideout. It was one of many empty, furnished houses in this particular neighborhood in Iowa. Some cocky construction company built rows and rows of these roomy, two story houses, and all without double checking to see if there were any potential buyers.

There weren't any.

It was all very convenient for the three of them. Most houses Sam and Dean squatted in during jobs didn't have furniture, let alone water, electricity, and rudimentary cable. The only thing lacking in this house was food, but Gabriel was handling that without complaint—which worried Sam, to be honest.

But hey, neither him nor Bobby had been poisoned yet, so that was a plus.

Bobby. Sam frowned. Poor Bobby. Waking up from Dean's dream had left Sam aching and in pain, but pretty mobile otherwise. Bobby was taking a lot more time to bounce back.

The older hunter had left the room on his own speed maybe twice, but that was only to go to the bathroom. He stayed in bed at all other times, reading when he wasn't trying to sleep it off.

Sam hadn't really gotten the chance to talk to him too much. Bobby was as touchy about this as he was about his legs and the wheelchair.

Ah, look at that. Sam was trying to distract himself from the television. Too bad it wasn't working.

Reluctantly, Sam refocused on the flat screen display.

A well dressed woman in a red power suit and too much lipstick sat at the news table. Her voice was even and her expression was calm, but her agitation was given away by the way she fiddled with her necklace. She seemed to be aware of this tick and at once stopped and brought her hands back to the table, revealing the necklace for what it was—a gold cross.

She was interviewing an all too familiar face.

"...and so you say you are now, quote on quote, the new God?"

Sam covered his face with his hands, groaning softly.

It wasn't, unfortunately, loud enough to obscure Castiel's voice.

"Yes, that is what I said." Castiel looked straight into the camera, confused. "I do not understand why you must repeat the same things over and over. Surely it is tedious."

"It's for our viewers, Mr..." The news anchor glanced over the notes in front of her. "Mr. Castiel."

"No. Just Castiel."

"Okay, Castiel." The woman smiled tightly. "What made you decide to, um, become a god?"

"You." Castiel looked at the camera. "All of you. Your gods don't listen to you and, if they do, they don't care. Even your Christian god is absent." Castiel averted his eyes, briefly looking troubled. "Certain scholars of yours—Nietzsche, for one—have long assumed that He is dead."

The women leaned forward slightly. "Are you saying He's dead?"

Castiel's eyes flicked back toward her. "I'm saying that it doesn't matter if He's alive or dead. He doesn't care," he said, a new edge in his voice. It gentled somewhat when he said, "But I care. I care so much for this planet. I am willing to be your God."

The women was clearly unsettled. Her hand rose unthinkingly to her ear as someone prompted her with something. Then she said, "Some might say that our modern world has no need of gods."

Castiel smiled slightly. "They're wrong. You need a God. Desperately. You need a God like you need your parents, your laws, your authorities. You need someone to follow, to tell you how to live your lives, to tell you how to _be_ and who you are. Otherwise, you're... lost."

She dropped her gaze, distractedly rearranging her notes. "Well..."

Castiel was still smiling. "You don't believe in me, do you, Katherine?" Her head shot up. She stared at him with wide eyes. "It's alright. I understand how hard it is to have faith. I too have struggled." He dipped his head slightly and said, "I know how much you prayed when Anthony got in that car accident, how much you begged for him to be alright, how much you beg every night for him to wake up."

Katherine looked absolutely wrecked. "How did you know that?"

Castiel tapped his ear. "Because I heard you." He leaned over, resting his hand over hers. "And, Katherine? God doesn't care about your son."

There was a flurry of chaos suddenly on the set as the anchor shot up from her chair, ripping her hand away from Castiel. Her face was as white as a sheet. Producers swarmed the set and the camera spun to the left.

And then a hand was tugging the remote out of Sam's hand. The television turned off.

"So, yeah," Gabriel said casually, leaning one hip on the couch. He tossed the remote to the other seat. "That's a thing now."

Speechless for a moment, Sam looked at the television, then back at Gabriel again. "What is he doing?"

"Establishing himself, of course. Creating a whole new religion."

Sam stared at the dead screen. "Jesus Christ."

Gabriel sighed loudly, flopping on the couch next to Sam. "This is the most innocent stage of his plan, you know."

Sam warily scooted away. "How's that?"

"How do you think? Cas is way more powerful than you realize. That little thing you saw right there? He doesn't have to do that to get followers. He doesn't have to ask for their _faith_ to get it." He smiled, the expression vicious and hard. "He's only asking because it amuses him to do so."

"He really has that kind of power?" Sam asked, horrified. "The power to subvert free will?"

Gabriel frowned at him. "Uh, yeah."

Sam twisted on the couch to face him more fully. "Then why didn't he use it on Dean and Bobby and me?"

Gabriel made a face. "Because there's still a bit of Castiel in that thing, and Cas wants his friends to acknowledge him willingly. That's about how much free will he's allowing you and, trust me, he's already regretting it."

Sam paused. Gabriel seemed to know an awful lot about Castiel's motivations. Too much, in fact. Sam's eyes narrowed. "How do you know that?"

"Because I _talked_ to him. Duh."

" _What_? When?"

"A little after my rebirth." Gabriel said defensively. He was fiddling with some thread on the back of the couch. When Sam didn't immediately go 'ah-ha!', Gabriel rolled his eyes and explained it further. "I was dead, remember? Then I wasn't. My presence right now is a little gift from our new deity. He offered me a chance to be his first archangel, you know."

"And what did you say?" Sam asked reluctantly, dreading the answer.

Gabriel pursed his lips slightly, eyes on the thread. "I said I'd think about it."

Sam's eyebrows knitted together. "Then what are you doing now?"

"Thinking about it." Gabriel looked up. Whatever he saw on Sam's face made him roll his eyes again. "Oh, don't look so betrayed, Sam. What other choice do I have? Bow or be devoured—literally." He wagged at finger at Sam. "He's not quite so merciful to us, bucko."

"You think locking us in my brother's head, _indefinitely_ , was him being merciful?" Sam demanded harshly, tense and about ready to spring from the couch.

Gabriel was gazing at him steadily now. "Well, he didn't kill you. Even though he said he would."

They stared at each other in absolute silence. Sam slowly settled back down against the couch, less angry now and not quite sure what to do in the calm.

Thankfully, someone cleared his throat. When he saw who it was, Sam leapt out of his seat. "Bobby."

He was eyeing Gabriel. "I'd hoped you were a bad dream."

Gabriel lazily rolled his head, glancing over the back of the couch. "Hm, missed you too." He blew Bobby a kiss.

Bobby determinedly ignored him. "So." He cleared his throat. "What's going on?"

"Well…" Sam gestured helplessly at the television. "Cas is God now."

Bobby winced. "I was hoping that was a dream too." He looked around the room expectantly. "Where's Dean?"

"Still with Cas," Sam said darkly, rounding the couch. "You and I were being stored in the same place, apparently. Cas has Dean somewhere else. That's why he's not here." Sam glanced briefly at Gabriel to double-check that his information was right. Gabriel obliged him with a tiny nod.

"We're getting him back, right?" Bobby said. It was hardly a question. It had all the tone and force of a demand.

Sam smiled slightly, tightly. "Of course." A thought occurred to him. He turned back to Gabriel. "You never said how we were getting him back."

Gabriel sighed dramatically, flinging himself horizontally over the couch. He disappeared from Sam's sight, but his voice rose soon enough. "We gotta get in contact with him first." Gabriel paused, and then poked his head over the back of the couch, frowning at Sam. "Say. You know that you two are soul mates or whatever, right?"

 

\-----

 

Dean was home after a hard day's work—hard day, meaning two stupid college kids who didn't know what coolant was, and one extremely idiotic specimen of middle-agedom who blew up his freaking car on the freeway and expected miracles.

Apparently, they just let _anyone_ drive these days.

Dean shook his head, reaching in the cabinet for the fixings of his meal.

Mm. Mac and Cheese. Dinner of champions.

Deciding on it pretty quickly, Dean scooped up the box and headed over to the stove, turning up the radio as he passed it. This was definitely a day where he didn't want silence. Silence meant thinking and thinking meant Castiel, and Dean just wasn't going there. No. He _refused_.

So loud music was a must. Thankfully, his radio always delivered.

He'd gotten a pot of water going when Aerosmith started fading in and out, like someone was messing very slightly with the dial. Dean turned slowly, frowning a bit. The red light on the machine was flickering, so he approached it, confused. He tipped the square, boxy radio over slightly, eyeing the plastic with inexpert eyes. Was one of the batteries loose? He was a mechanic, not a freaking engineer.

He banged the radio on the counter once, experimentally.

Imagine his surprise when the damn thing started _talking_. "Uh, Dean?"

Dean sprang away from the counter, staring at the radio in horror.

Oh God. The radio was talking to him. Jesus _Christ_ on a tortilla, the _radio was talking to him_ , sounding tentative, of all things—because _of course_ Dean's psychoses would have self-esteem issues.

"Dean, can you- can you hear me?"

Wait, Dean recognized that voice. He approached the possessed thing carefully. "Sammy?"

How was Sam doing this? Could radios really be used as walkie-talkies? Goddammit, why didn't Dean know these things?

"Oh, good. It went through. Okay, Dean, you gotta hear me out about this-"

Dean shook his head once, interrupting him. "Get me out of here, Sammy."

"Okay, you're oddly up to speed."

"The water is turning people into a bunch of dickless, spineless robots. People are _agreeing_ with me, Sam, no matter what I say! It's fucking weird!" Okay, that aside, there was that other thing that was bothering him... "Speaking of which, why the hell are you contacting me through a radio? I thought we used phones like _normal people_."

There was a long pause on Sam's end. "Okay, so you're _not_ up to speed."

Dean grabbed a chair and pulled it up to the counter. "Are you back in California yet? You said you were going home."

Sam started stammering. "Dude, it's- that Sam isn't the real Sam. _I'm_ the real Sam. It's just… it's very complicated."

Dean stared at the radio with a considering look. He rubbed a thumb along his jaw as he thought.

This Sam sounded like Sam, not like that bubbly, jolly good times bastard he'd said good-bye to. This Sam sounded grouchy and irritable and earnest, which were three of Sam's worst qualities, if you asked him.

That was it, then, Dean decided, thumping his fist into his palm. This Sam had to be the real deal.

"It's not the water, then."

Sam blew out a frustrated breath. "No, not so much. Oh man, how do I explain this. So, Dean. It's like the Matrix." There was a pause. "If the Matrix was _in your head_."

Dean frowned. "What? What are you-"

The radio suddenly exploded in front of him. Dean shoved away from the blackened mess, knocking the chair over. He instinctively patted himself down, expecting injuries, but the explosion had been well contained.

Dean didn't look up to see who had done it. There was no point in confirming what he already knew.

"The front door's locked for a reason," Dean rasped, lowering his hands from his face. He'd changed the locks as soon as he got home.

Ignoring the hint, Castiel walked into the kitchen proper, frowning at the radio like it had done him some grievous harm.

Finally, he looked at Dean. "What about this displeases you?" He looked genuinely confused.

Dean covered his face again. "Go away," he said quietly.

" _Dean_."

"What part of _go away_ can't you understand?" Dean snapped, dropping his hands.

After a moment of enduring Dean's furious glare, Castiel dropped his eyes. "My apologies," he said. And then he disappeared. _Again_.

Dean rolled his head back and sighed, staring at the ceiling.

He had to have another radio around here. _Had to_. It was up to him to find it.

Sam was counting on him.


	13. Chapter 13

\-----

 

Chapter Thirteen

 

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Sam walked around, rubbing his chest fitfully. There was some residual pain, like someone punched him there hard hours ago.

Reality was worse. Having an angel stick his hand in your soul was no picnic. But, hey, it worked. Sam got through to Dean. Gabriel had managed to tap into the connection between the two of them with his grace.

But these things didn't come without a price. One of the prices was Sam's pain.

The other price was that they may or may not have tipped off Castiel, who may or may not have gotten a bead where they were hiding out and who may or may not be coming to kill them for their heresy.

Gabriel was so imprecise about these things.

But two hours had passed by without locusts or lightning or an old friend in a trench coat, so Sam had to assume the best—that they may have tipped off Castiel, but that Castiel still didn't know where they were.

Fortunately, the reverse was turning out not to be true. Gabriel was currently sitting with Bobby over a map, narrowing down the search area for Dean based on what information he'd been able to get with his grace. Bobby was comparing it to supernatural dead zones—huge pockets of inactivity in the country that they could only assume formed because of their new lord.

There was a lot of assuming going on in this house. Sam didn't like it, but there was little he could do at the moment. Bobby and Gabriel both had banished him to rest, and the closest they allowed him to get to their work was the couch.

Bored, Sam turned on the television, then turned it back off. He didn't want to hear about Castiel. He didn't want to face how very screwed they all were. Mostly, he didn't want to think about what Amelia and Claire Novak felt, seeing Jimmy's face plastered on the news like that.

There were no words for how he felt about all of this, but guilt was at least in the ballpark. After all, Sam had played a role in this that was no more unessential to Castiel's own. If he'd noticed something earlier, if he'd offered more friendship, could he have stopped this from happening? If he hadn't lost his soul, if he hadn't become such a burden on Dean, if he figured out a different way to put Lucifer in the cage...

There were so many ifs.

Sam jerked out of his thoughts when Bobby yawned a good-night from behind him. Sam watched as the older hunter stumbled up the stairs, his grip tight on the banister. The distance between him and Bobby was as big as ever, now that Bobby remembered his little soulless phase. There was nothing Sam could say to make up for that. Nothing.

He missed Bobby.

Heart heavy, Sam turned back to the television.

Gabriel was perched on the arm of the couch, watching him. "Sam." He sucked in a breath, like he was about to tell Sam to get some rest, but then he paused, his head cocked to the side as if he realized the ridiculousness of it all—an archangel playing babysitter to a human.

Sam stared at him for a moment before twisting on the cushion. He gestured at his chest. "Again."

Visibly jolted out of his thoughts, Gabriel frowned at him. "What?"

"The soul touch- whatever you did," Sam said impatiently. He braced himself for the pain. "Do it again."

Gabriel's eyes dropped to his torso. There was a strange expression on his face—distant and intense. He dropped to his knees in the cushions, barely squeezing in between his old perch and Sam's folded legs. Then he was reaching out slowly, fingers curled lightly toward his palm.

Sam stiffened, but stayed in place, even Gabriel's warm palm flattened against his chest. Sam swallowed hard. Gabriel's eyes flicked up.

Then the angel was shoving him back against the couch. Sam's head barely missed the hard edge of the couch's arm. He stayed like that for a second, half of him hanging over the floor, the whole of him made still by some visceral, animal instinct to _stay down while the predator was looking at you_.

But then Gabriel was backing up, reclaiming his place with an expression that said he'd done nothing out of the ordinary.

So Sam sat up. "What was that?" he demanded, feeling the adrenaline rush hit him now—too late, after the fact.

Gabriel swung his legs around, putting his back to Sam. His voice was deliberately casual. "That was me, the moral version."

"Moral? You?" A ugly sound ripped out of Sam's throat. It was made to sound like a laugh. "You've gotta be joking. _Lucifer_ had more morals than you."

And then Sam sucked in his breath, ashamed of himself. He couldn't believe that just came out of his own mouth.

Gabriel was very still. He looked over his shoulder after a moment, his expression inscrutable. He never looked more like Castiel than he did in that moment.

"Go to bed, Sam," he ordered, and there was no doubt about it—it was an order.

Sam didn't bother fighting it. He stood quietly and went to his room, feet dragging on the stairs.

Sam felt like a scolded child. He also felt like he deserved it for acting like one. He rubbed his face with one hand, disgusted with himself. He knew what Gabriel's relationship with his brother was like. Why did he have to go for the jugular? What, for some sick sense of satisfaction?

Sam stopped abruptly in the hallway. Bobby was eyeing him knowingly from the doorway of his room. Sam flushed red-hot in shame. There was no way Bobby didn't hear that. The walls in this house were paper thin.

"You are aware we have nearly zero allies? Don't go chasing off the few we have."

Sam nodded wordlessly and then, head bowed, he retreated to his room.

 

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Later that same night, Sam crept out of his room quietly, taking special care to avoid the squeaky floorboards. Once past them, he moved quickly down the stairs.

He'd been utterly unable to sleep. If it wasn't guilt that was plaguing him, then it was anxiety for Dean. How much longer was he going to be trapped by Castiel? Was he scared? Was he waiting on Sam to save him? And would Gabriel even help them now, after what Sam had said?

Sam really hated himself sometimes.

He sat down on the couch, turning on the television. He had a dim hope that it would lull him to sleep, just like it used to when he was a kid.

An hour later, he was still awake, bleary eyes focused on the screen. The volume was way down and light was flashing from the bright images. Every few minutes, he turned the channel, looking for something new.

Every news channel was talking about Castiel. He was even a trending topic on Twitter. Why that was news worthy information, Sam would never know.

There was one thing he did know, though, and it was that the world didn't know how to handle Castiel. So it handled him the way it handled everything else—with a little perfunctory seriousness, some derisive laughter, and a lot of scared denial.

When Sam pulled his eyes away from the television again, Gabriel was there in the same spot he'd been on hours ago—almost like he'd never left. If that wasn't eerie enough, it almost felt like Sam had never left either.

Gabriel looked exactly like he did before Sam left, like the world had gone on pause without Sam noticing. His eyes were completely focused on Sam and his expression was still so damn unreadable.

Time had passed, however, and with it introspection. By now, Sam knew what he should say, but he wasn't sure he could say it.

He found himself talking suddenly, his voice raising to break the heavy silence. "Dean would know what to do. He's the fearless trail blazer, not me." It sounded like an excuse. Sam steeled himself and continued on. "And… and I'm worried that, if we don't figure out what's happening soon, whatever it is…" He paused, swallowed, and then said, "It's going to be irreversible."

After a moment, Gabriel broke his intense stare, shrugging one shoulder. "Can't say that isn't true." His eyes slid away and back again. "I don't envy your life."

Sam watched him for a moment and then sat up, eyeing him closer. "Why aren't you siding with Cas?"

Here he was, the last of the archangels, slumming it with a bunch of humans in an unsold house in Iowa. He could have so much more. He could _be_ so much more. He could be Castiel's right hand angel and reap all the rewards of such a conversion of faith.

Instead, he was here, with Sam, watching crappy cable. It seemed so unnecessary—for Gabriel, that is. It reminded Sam of every conversation he'd pulled him into in that dream—every cryptic statement, every text, every moment he let Sam know that he wasn't alone.

It reminded Sam of being pressed against a wall of a hotel that didn't exist. Sam's heart thumped a little faster at the memory and his face burned red. He could be glad that the living room was so dark at that moment.

In front of him, Gabriel made a musing noise. Some of his habitual humor was returning to his eyes, chasing away that horrible blankness. "I don't know." A wry smile pulled at his mouth. "What can I say? I've always had a soft spot for the plucky underdogs."

It took Sam a moment to remember what they were talking about. "He'll destroy you," he said firmly once he recalled. Gabriel made a dismissive roll of his eyes. Sam shifted closer, earnest. "No, _think_ about it, Gabriel. Michael, Lucifer, Raphael—in one way or another, Castiel has had a hand in every other archangel's downfall. Every archangel, except _you_."

Gabriel was watching him again, but in that considering way Sam was just starting to get used to. The longer Sam held his gaze, the more the corner of his mouth curled into a smile until it hit some plateau. His lips flattened out again and his head ducked slightly. A strand of his hair fell forward, curling slightly over his forehead.

Softly, Sam said, "You're the last archangel standing. You might be one of the most powerful beings in the world, but all he has to do to end you is snap his fingers."

Gabriel shot him a disgruntled look, looking a bit like his pride was being hurt. "Do you want me on your side or not?" He almost sounded like he was whining, but his voice was much too quiet for that.

Sam licked his lips nervously, but said, "It might be better for your health if you weren't." He tried to make it sound like a joke, like his brother might in a similar situation, but he was afraid it fell flat.

"And it might be better for yours if you and your stupid brother bent your freaking necks already, but..." Gabriel shrugged eloquently. He braced his elbows on his knees, folding his hands over his mouth. "Beggars can't be choosers."

Gabriel was all soft lines and shadows in the light of the flickering television. He might have been smirking at Sam, he might not have been. He might have been staring down at Sam with thinly veiled contempt—who knew.

But Sam didn't let this uncertainty deter him. He slid towards Gabriel, pressing his knees into the cushions. He cautiously lifted himself up so that he and Gabriel were about an inch apart. And then he paused. Sam could be a pretty decisive guy on most days, but everything about this moment seemed so fuzzy and out of focus, almost dream-like in quality.

And the way Gabriel watched him approach—head tilted, eyes riveted, mouth slightly parted over his hands. He wasn't the only one feeling this way.

Sam was not reading this wrong. _He wasn't_.

Still, though. Sam paused.

After a moment, Gabriel rolled his eyes, then growled, "I'm not known as the angel of self-restraint for a _reason_ , Sam." And then he was sliding neatly into Sam's lap, hands fisting on either side of Sam's head and, wow, kissing him was even better in reality.

He might have said something along those lines out loud because Gabriel was snorting, and then he was shoving Sam back against the couch, the gesture so similar to the one he'd used earlier that evening. But it was different too—it felt charged, purposeful, less like a rejection and more like an invitation.

Plus, this time, instead of nearly cracking his head against the other side of the couch, he instead found himself bouncing off of a bed—the bed he'd left in the room he'd claimed.

And he was startlingly naked too.

Sam rolled his eyes, letting his head fall against the tousled sheets—just the way he'd left them. "You're patient," he told the ceiling.

And then Gabriel was there, interrupting his view of the white, patterned surface. He was still noticeably dressed, but he didn't seem to notice, too intent on Sam.

Gabriel bent over him without ever touching skin, caging Sam in with his arms and his legs. He smiled down at Sam, his hair falling all around his face.

He briefly lifted one arm to make slight beckoning gesture with two fingers, and then Sam was arching up on elbows, straining his neck so his mouth may reach Gabriel's. Their lips slid together slowly. Sam felt a faint brush of fingertips across his jaw and closed his eyes.

"Always knew you'd be sweet."

Sam's eyes shot open. There it was-the _mocking_.

The smug prick let Sam pull away slightly. He let Sam lift his own leg from the mattress and bend it almost to his chest. He even let Sam place his bare foot solidly against his shoulder, wriggling his eyebrows once as if to _dare_ him.

Where this was going should have been (and was) obvious to the two of them. Even so, it was a surprise to the both of them (for different reasons) when Sam suddenly kicked out with his foot and when Gabriel actually tipped over and hit the floor.

It was a greater surprise to Sam when, after a moment of heavy silence, Gabriel slowly started giggling—loudly and without-self censor. Huffing out an annoyed breath, Sam sat up, bracing his weight behind him on his hands. The position was just high enough for him to see Gabriel roll over to his hands and knees.

Of course, this was the point where Sam started realizing the errors of his ways. Rather than feeling satisfaction at unseating Gabriel so decisively, he felt something else entirely—arousal. And it was mostly his fault for that too, because he knew what was causing it—Gabriel, on his knees, between Sam's open legs. It made his blood burn and his heart thunder fast in his chest.

And that was when Gabriel was a good four feet away. It got worse when Gabriel moved toward him on his knees, close enough to touch. He smirked up at Sam, like he could read Sam's thoughts. And maybe he could, because he was suddenly smoothing his palms over Sam's knees, his thumb rubbing encouraging circles on the insides of them. He cocked his head to the side, eyeing Sam with new light in his eyes.

"Not sweet at all, huh?"

Sam lifted his chin. "Never."

Gabriel's teeth flashed at the same time his fingers curled around the back of Sam's knees. "Good."

And then, without warning, Gabriel yanked once, and hard, and Sam went sliding off the bed like butter off a hot knife. He didn't have much time to do more than gasp, because then he was hopelessly tangled with Gabriel, and Gabriel's mouth was wet and hard against his own—no longer soft, no longer gentle, and, most importantly, no longer _teasing_.

There was never a question of whether or not Sam actually wanted this because, oh, Sam wanted. He _craved_. He wanted to crawl inside of Gabriel and never, ever leave.

And that was dangerous because... fuck. He wasn't Dean. He wasn't that _stupid_.

So he made it a fight. He shoved Gabriel off and, when that didn't work for long, rolled them over on the floor for better leverage. He managed to pin Gabriel for all of three seconds before Gabriel reversed their positions.

Gabriel laughed the entire time—well, whenever Sam wasn't shoving his tongue down his throat, that is. Anything to shut him up, Sam told himself, ignoring the part of him that whispered that, well, he just liked kissing.

Meanwhile, the struggle didn't last long. Soon enough, Sam found himself almost back where he started, partially laying against the side of the bed and panting. This time, Gabriel didn't let him move.

He secretly delighted at Gabriel's absolute control—at the way the angel only felt what he wanted to feel, only did what he wanted to do. How he'd only fallen because he wanted to fall.

There was never any… Sam couldn't _break_ him. Not unless he wanted to be broken.

It was safe. _Gabriel_ was safe.

But that was rather the last thing on Sam's mind at the moment. His hands were pinned on either side of him and his head was pressing against the mattress, his throat working hard to pull in air. He was straining under the restraint because there was a tight, wet heat wrapped around his cock, and nowhere at all to go.

He squirmed desperately, whispering all sorts of things to the ceilings—threats and promises, pleas and demands, more of this and less of that, and, Jesus Christ, don't ever stop.

Gabriel was laughing at him again. Sam could feel it.

Wanting more of Gabriel than a weight on his legs and hands, he pleaded and prodded at Gabriel with his knees until Gabriel pulled off of him with a muttered word and crawled towards him, straddling Sam's lap again with lazy ease.

Everything from that point on went sideways and a little blurry. Desperate for more, Sam ripped at clothing, shoving material away to try and find skin to touch, but he couldn't undress Gabriel enough. There were always jeans or cotton or something dragging at his skin somewhere. The open edges of Gabriel's shirt tickled Sam's sides while the rough drag of his jeans pulled across Sam's naked thighs.

For a moment, Gabriel made as if to get up, but, growling out his not very happy feelings about this, Sam yanked him back down. Gabriel snickered, letting himself fall. Then his hand snaked between them, hot and clever and unzipping Gabriel's rotten jeans.

Sam may have made an embarrassing noise at this point, but he would never, ever cop to it.

He would cop to the marks he was making on Gabriel's skin, though—later, maybe. But now, he licked and bit at the pale, vulnerable curve of Gabriel's neck, his arm curled tightly around Gabriel's back. He tucked the angel as close to himself as humanly possible, but it wasn't enough. There was barely any room for the hand between them, pulling at their cocks, but it still wasn't enough. Gabriel's knuckles were pressing bruises into Sam's stomach with every stroke but it. Still. Was not. _Enough_.

There was a soft, desperate sound in the air suddenly that Sam barely recognized as his own, and then Gabriel was breathing dark, harsh words into the air before his hand sped up, his fingers tightening. His thumb was doing something new and fantastic with every upstroke, and Sam had barely the breath to praise it before he was releasing all over their stomachs. Gabriel was soon to follow.

Everything became kinda fuzzy and vague and warm after that, and Sam wallowed in it, too relaxed to worry about should's, should not's, and definitely should not's—a category of which Gabriel was always a permanent resident.

Sam tried to remember why he'd ever cared.


	14. Chapter 14

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Chapter Fourteen

 

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Sam sagged against the bed, breathing hard and feeling like every muscle in his body had just uncoiled from his bones and rolled out across the floor.

It was a surprisingly nice feeling, given the gruesome visual. He closed his eyes.

Sam became aware of himself again in slow stages after that—the heavy breathing, the slowing heartbeat, the slippery sweat, the minute trembling of his limbs.

It was a natural thing to become aware of Gabriel next. He was a warm, sweaty and sticky lump on top of him. His head was pressed into Sam's shoulder. He mumbled a grumpy protest when Sam tried to stretch an aching leg.

Sam should have dumped his ass on the ground, but he hesitated, gazing down at the top of his hair with a fledgling kind of fondness before looking on with a more pronounced frown.

Gabriel was still mostly dressed, Sam noted with a sense of being thwarted. He'd managed to get Gabriel's jacket as well as sneaking—or ripping—his way into Gabriel's buttoned up shirt, but he hadn't gotten much further than that.

Still feeling relaxed but also a little shaky, Sam tipped his head back, resting it against the mattress behind him. He smoothed a hand over Gabriel's back, staring up at the ceiling.

Had he _really_ just had sex with a guy on the floor?

Gabriel's thoughts were apparently going in the same direction. "So much for the bed," he muttered against Sam's skin before clambering gently off of Sam's lap. He landed next to Sam, slouching against the bed frame. He lifted his hips slightly, tugging at the front of his jeans.

Hit by a strange sense of shyness—too late, Winchester!—Sam looked away. He found himself staring at his own legs, at the drag and run burns already forming there from their rolling around on the floor.

"I'm naked," he said. Gabriel snorted next to him. Undeterred, Sam went on, folding a bit of the overhanging sheet over his lap, wiping distractedly at his stomach. "I have exactly one pair of jeans, Gabriel. If you disappeared them to the _moon_ or something-"

Gabriel didn't snap his fingers or jump up or procure his missing jeans in some instantaneous manner. But he did open his eyes and glance around the room—which was more than Sam expected him to do, to be honest. "Chill out. They're here." Sam didn't miss the muttered 'somewhere'.

Sam sighed and rolled his head back again, watching Gabriel out of the corner of his eye. It was easier to focus on the slight frown on Gabriel's face than it was to think about the consequences of breaking an entire lifetime's worth of heterosexuality for a guy he wasn't sure he even _liked_. The fact that Gabriel was probably genderless did little to ease the shock.

So he focused on Gabriel. He couldn't even justify to himself why he'd gone after Gabriel so suddenly. Sure, he'd missed the guy when he was dead (Gabriel was a dick, but he had _style_ ). He even felt guilty as hell for his role in it, but he wasn't harboring any secret feelings for him, not like Dean was for Cas.

The two of them, Sam and Gabriel, they just _were_. It was no big, epic thing, like Dean and Cas. It was just… tormentor and tormentee. It was nothing complicated or serious. They were barely more than acquaintances, really, if one disregarded the profound sacrifice Gabriel once made for them—or Kali, rather.

And yet… this happened.

Sam frowned at himself, trying to point a finger at any one moment that could have started this all. He kept on coming to a blank. Gabriel was just there and present and unyielding and… if Sam was going to be honest, he'd been thinking about Gabriel's mouth for _days_. Ever since that kiss in the hotel that never was.

Still, though. No reason to jump a guy—especially an archangel.

Gabriel suddenly noticed Sam's gaze and completely misunderstood the reason behind it. He sighed, saying, "Getting your brother back, that's not going to be easy." He looked at Sam seriously, gold eyes peeking under dark lashes. Sam sort of stiffened, and not in a good way.

What the hell- what the hell was Sam doing? This? When Dean was still _captured_? Shame flooded Sam suddenly and it was all he could do not to drown in it.

Gabriel continued on obliviously. "Cas doesn't think of anyone as anything but possessions any more, and your brother is a limited edition Ken doll in all the original wrappings. No way is he just gonna let us swipe him off the shelf." He seemed to mentally rewind and catch up with his own metaphor in hindsight. He made a face and shrugged. "So to speak."

Well. Sam definitely wasn't relaxed anymore. He stood up, wrapping the sheet around his waist. "No way we can just leave him there," he countered quickly, frowning. Where were his _pants_? He had to get dressed. There were things to do, plans to make, strategy to formulate. He had to save Dean.

Gabriel followed his movement with his eyes, but otherwise didn't move. "That too." His gaze shot up to meet Sam's. "Dean's the crux of this. I know it."

Sam froze rather awkwardly, one hand hanging at his side while the other clutched at sheet. "Crux of _what_ , exactly?"

"Nothing you need to worry about now," Gabriel said seriously. His eyes remained riveted to Sam's for a moment before they started wandering, catching on his mouth, his collarbone, his chest. A somewhat sober smile passed over his face, more resigned than anything else. "Look at you. Your wet blanketness is catching."

Sam didn't know whether to straighten up under his gaze or hide himself with more of the sheet. "How's that?" The question came out sounding defensive—and maybe it was.

Gabriel lifted an eyebrow. "You know, people have sex to forget everything for a few hours. Work off a bit of stress, sleep the exhaustion off. You know, human things."

"I can't forget about _Dean_ ," he hissed through his teeth—even though, for a moment, he did.

And it seemed like breathing was suddenly too much for Sam because his chest _ached_ horribly, bone deep—maybe even deeper. Grunting quietly, he sank to one knee, an arm curled protectively over his chest as it throbbed twice, menacingly.

Gabriel watched him with narrow eyes. "I'm not being a jerk. There's a reason why we're waiting to catch up to your brother." Slowly, he slid forward on his knees, curling one hand around Sam's upper arm.

After Sam rode out the next wave of pain, Gabriel ducked his head slightly so that their eyes met. "In case you didn't notice, genius, there was a backlash." He lifted his free hand and wiggled his fingers suggestively. "When I touched your soul?"

Sam yanked his arm out of Gabriel's grip, secretly and desperately relieved that Gabriel actually let him. "So?"

"So?" One of Gabriel's eyebrows was high on his forehead, like he couldn't believe Sam had said such a stupid thing. " _So_ , Darth Cas is keeping a very, very close eye on your brother's soul. Much, much closer than I expected, which was a mistake on my part. My bad." He looked sheepish for a moment. "It wasn't like I didn't know that he peeked in every now and then."

"He did more than peek," Sam said grimly. "And he definitely did it more than 'now and then'." He swallowed, focusing his gaze on Gabriel's thighs for a moment. Then he said, "So, before, when you-"

He stopped talking. Sam didn't need to provide any explanations for what he was talking about. Gabriel's eyes darkened slightly at the reminder of their first encounter in the living room—the one that hadn't led to sex. They darted away, narrowing at the carpet.

"Don't offer an angel the chance to touch your soul, Sam," he said seriously. "The temptation is just too..." He shook his head and then cocked it slightly to the side. "I've killed angels for less than I did to you today."

"You had to," Sam whispered, frowning. Gabriel's eyes were now focused somewhere beyond Sam's left shoulder.

"There are other ways to find humans," Gabriel said gruffly, but he sounded like he doubted his own words.

"And to find Dean?" Sam pressed, shifting into a more comfortable position. The ache in his chest was just residual again.

Gabriel made a face. "Yeah, well… we'll do it again tomorrow." He made a strange, almost dismissive gesture in front of him. "Tomorrow, there should be no backlash. He won't be there, lingering on the edges of Dean's mind like some... creepy stalker." Despite the topic, Sam bit down on a smile. Gabriel calling someone else creepy, yeah, that was rich.

Gabriel continued on, oblivious to the thoughts running through Sam's head. He was frowning. "He'll be busy—too busy to play house husband in some human's fantasy."

Something about Gabriel's tone struck him as odd.

Sam's eyes narrowed. "What's happening tomorrow?"

Gabriel licked his lips, trying on a smile. His eyes met Sam's finally, and Sam had never seen a more sorry, more fake expression of amusement than the one Gabriel had right at that very moment.

"This realm's remaining pagan gods are fleeing to a new dimension." He said it like other people would comment on the new Starbucks in town. Yes, something was _definitely_ wrong.

"They… they can do that?" Then Sam realized how Gabriel would have known—and why he would have that expression on his face. "Kali."

"They won't make it," Gabriel said flatly. "Castiel's got a huge pride thing going on right now. They aren't challenging his ascension, but they _are_ leaving him. That'll hit him where it hurts. The way he is now, he'd rather kill them than watch them leave." He blinked several times and then said harshly, "I _tried_ to tell them. 'It's a suicide mission, you knuckleheads!' But they didn't listen. Being worshiped as gods for centuries… it goes to your head after a while. I should know."

Sam stared at him, speechless. Something useless—like sympathy—was bubbling up inside of him. Before he could say something, Gabriel's eyes were widening and then he was jumping up to his feet, clapping his hands together loudly.

"Well. I suppose you'll be looking forward to tomorrow, what with your brother and all." Gabriel's cheerful expression was one hundred percent insincere. "You'll need sleep so I'll leave you to it."

Sam staggered back up to his feet, one hand reaching for Gabriel, his mouth forming the angel's name.

But Gabriel was almost instantly gone, disappearing without even his showy finger-snap. Sam let his hand fall down with a sigh, feeling like the worst kind of worthless being.

Damn, this was complicated. No, he wasn't looking forward to the next day, even if it meant he was going to see Dean again. He couldn't be happy about it, because, about this time tomorrow, every pagan god Gabriel ever called family was going to be dead—no, murdered. Ripped to shreds. Sam's mouth flattened. Devoured, if they were unlucky.

He supposed Gabriel already knew that.

 

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When Dean was thirteen, he'd managed to train himself out of a fairly destructive nervous habit. Now Dean, he really didn't care what most people thought about the various shit he did, but girls tended to react negatively to a guy who chews on the skin between his pointer and thumb whenever things got a bit tense. Something about it being _gross_ or unsanitary or a prelude to rampant cannibalism—whatever.

Point is, he'd been motivated to stop and he trained himself out of it the same way a neighbor trained a dog to quit eating the door—by dousing the problem area with hot sauce. Easy as pie.

Painful, painful pie.

Dean didn't have any hot sauce now, which sucked because this was the fifth time he caught himself chewing on his thumb. Nothing could convince him to get up and fetch some of that gloriously horrible hot sauce, though. No way. He wasn't moving.

The closet around him, well... it was cramped and uncomfortable and littered with things that had no right being there—three radios in various states of disrepair, a plugged in microwave, an ancient television set, a cell phone for good luck. There was barely enough room left on the floor for him to sit with his legs pressed against his chest. It was a tight fit.

Even so, he didn't _want_ to move. He could sit down and put his back up against one wall and watch all the other corners very easily. That meant something to him now, especially with...

Well. Cas. Enough said there.

Dean sighed. He'd grabbed every electronic thing he could carry and... he could tell he was going crazy. He expected _something_ to happen here, something with all these machine things. Or maybe just one.

Aw, hell. Dean rubbed at his face briskly. Maybe he'd just hallucinated things before. People do that under stress, right? His free hand inched across the floor toward the cell phone.

He should call Sam. He'd call and they'd talk and he'd tell his brother about his weird ass hallucinations and... they'd laugh and forget it ever happened.

Tugging on the loose end of the earphones he had draped around his neck, Dean let himself believe that little scenario for a whole ten seconds before surrendering to reality—or, some form of it, anyway.

 _No_ , Sam wouldn't laugh with him. That just wouldn't happen. Sam would hightail his little rabbit ass over to Lawrence, all concern and worry like the six foot four girl he really was, and then he'd somehow talk Dean into making an appointment with a shrink and, oh, hell no. Dean was _not_ doing that again!

...again?

Dean realized suddenly that he was gnawing fretfully on his thumb— _again_. Wincing, he shook out his hand. He scowled at himself. He was a grown man, damn it!

As soon as he thought that, though, he was questioning it. Grown men didn't sit on the floors, waiting for something to talk to them. Grown men didn't hide in closets from their loved ones. _Shit_ , what was he _doing_?

Dean rubbed a hand over his hair. He fumed quietly. Was this really how he was going to waste his night? Here, when he should be figuring out what was up with Cas? Wasn't Cas supposed to be his priority?

God, he was so stupid.

Dean had barely braced his weight on one knee to stand when, suddenly, without warning, all the technology in the closet started buzzing oddly, kicking up a racket. Eyes wide, Dean slid back closer to the wall defensively, wondering if he'd overloaded something and everything was about to blow.

The microwave light flashed on and off, the spinning center plate moving counterclockwise. Black and white fuzzy stuff danced over the old television screen. The cell phone rattled across the floor with the force of vibration alone, only the vibration never really stopped.

And the three radios, battered and beaten and practically a mess of parts, started humming—first quietly and then steadily louder and louder, raising to some kind of metallic shriek. He winced, clamping his hands reflexively to his ears.

And then everything quieted suddenly. _Almost_ everything quit buzzing, but the radios were still spewing noise, lower than before. Slowly, Dean edged toward them.

Something issued out of the speakers, sounding vaguely like a hundred music genres spliced clumsily together. Dean couldn't pick a single word out of it—not yet, anyway.

Not until a distinct male voice cut through the nonsensical leftover noise. It came from the center radio—a lopsided thing with a faded Hello Kitty image printed on one side.

"Uh, Dean?"

Dean didn't really think about it much, he just surged forward desperately, cramming the headphones in so Cas wouldn't hear. Once silence was secured, Dean slipped the ear buds in and braced his arm on top of the radio, his fingers clenched in a shaking fist as he strained his hearing.

The voice came again, stronger this time. " _Dean._ "

Dean dropped his head, swallowing the sound that threatened to come out. It felt raw and real and painful. All of a sudden, Dean was dead tired. He just wanted to see his brother again.

"I hear ya," he said instead, his voice hoarse.

Sam spoke quickly, the words practically tripping over one another. "Look, I gotta make this quick. The distraction... it's not gonna last long, and you need to know what to do." He paused only briefly before he started talking again, even faster than before. "We're prepared on our end. We just need to be within five miles of you to break whatever curse you're stuck in, but, dude, you need to bust out on your own. It's... unpleasant." There was a longer pause this time, and then he said, "You remember the djinn?"

Dean wiped sweat from his forehead. "No, but I could sure use one right now."

There was a heavy sort of silence on Sam's end. "Oh. _Shit_. Do you... do you even remember our last conversation?" He sounded so concerned.

"Sure I do," Dean muttered, pulling lightly at his own hair. "It's the Matrix in my head. That's why everyone's wonky." He was going to be cool about this—this was what he swore to himself. He was _not_ going to freak out all over the talking radio.

Dean was talking before he could convince himself to stop. "But what I don't understand is, you know, if that's true, why isn't this more awesome? Why aren't more people are singing my praises right now? Why I can't look outside and summon a hurricane or a storm or something. It's my mind, isn't it? I have the control."

"You have some control over what happens, sure, but I know Castiel's got his hook in somewhere. Maybe he's the one forcing everything to match some level of reality."

Sam's words went in one ear and out the other. He wasn't talking about anything Dean was terribly concerned about. He didn't care that the masses had better things to do than fall at his feet. He didn't care that he couldn't control the cosmos. He didn't care that he wasn't a freaking god here. He couldn't even begin to express how little that meant to him.

Everything else, though—that was a different story. How could something that so real be so fake?

Desperately clinging to straws, Dean whispered, "This can't be fake, Sammy. Lisa and Ben live right next door. Mom and Dad are about five minutes away and-"

"Lisa and Ben live in Michigan," Sam interrupted quickly. He had all the polite, pained solicitude of the person who was forced to rip bandages off your worst wounds. "And, Dean? Mom and Dad are dead. Have been for years."

Dean froze. His gaze fixated on a scuff mark two inches from his hand. He leaned forward, examining it closer because, hell, someone had to clean it up. It might as well be him.

Small droplets of water hit the ground by his thumb. Dean reeled back on his haunches, realizing his face was hot and his throat was tight. He clenched his eyes shut, then let them open. He stared sightlessly at the wall.

He really couldn't ignore this, could he? Even though he desperately, desperately wanted to, he had... he had to deal with this. For Sammy. For him too.

And probably for Cas as well.

Dean let himself breathe for a moment, allowing himself to absorb the new— _old_ —information. "My memories say you're wrong, but my gut..." Dean smoothed the back of his hand over his cheek and then cleared his throat. His voice was rough. "Never really felt right around them."

"Oh, God. _Dean_."

Dean made a face. "Shut up." After a pause, he said, "Bitch."

Sam chuckled hoarsely. "Jerk."

Dean cleared his throat again. "So. How do I get out of here?" he said briskly, forcing the conversation back on track.

Fortunately, Sam got the hint. "We can't get in there again, but Gabriel says he left a token behind, something to use to wake yourself up." There was a moment of silence in which Sam dithered and Dean wondered just how the hell Sam's frat brother had anything to do with this. "Dean, it's… it's not pleasant."

"How's that?"

Sam's voice was very solemn in Dean's ears. "You're gonna have to kill yourself with it."

Dean rolled his head back with an odd smile. He was hardly amused, but there was still something inherently _funny_ about all of this, in a dark, messed up way.

Wouldn't it be an interesting twist if he'd been misled by paranoia and hallucinations and, instead of killing himself to be free, he actually killed himself and, you know, _died_ because he was a crazy person who believed in disembodied voices that came from radios?

Dean let out a slow, shaky breath. Goddamn it, he was that crazy person—in the closet, talking to radios to people beyond state lines, Jesus. Radios didn't have receivers. How was this even _working_?

Dean glared at the radio, sitting back on his heels. "That's… peachy." He bit his lip and then said decisively, "Where'd he leave it?"


	15. Chapter 15

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Chapter Fifteen

 

\-----

 

Dean crawled out of his closet, feeling about as mighty as a tower of jello in the heat. He looked up and down the hallway suspiciously before moving toward the direction of the kitchen.

He moved as quietly as possible, feeling like an intruder in his own house—and maybe that wasn't a bad comparison. He didn't belong here. He didn't _fit_. And, the more he let himself think about that, the more he quit looking around and thinking 'mine, mine, mine', the more he remembered why he should be somewhere else.

The road, the Impala, _Sammy_. Years and years of hunting trickled into his mind like they'd never left. He remembered the djinn suddenly and that creepy ass social experiment of Zachariah. More importantly, he remembered the events that led to his, shall he say, incarceration here.

But, of course, he remembered that already, didn't he? He'd been so happy to deny it, though—so happy to pretend it was just a bad dream.

It didn't take long to find what he was looking for. A long, stake-like object was shoved in the pages of an ancient cookbook, forcing the covers to bulge out and topple his neat little line of texts above the refrigerator.

Dean palmed it carefully. It was silver and familiar and surprisingly light. He knew what it was, but he didn't have a specific word for it—they'd all been denied that little tidbit. Frowning, he flipped it in his hand once, catching as it fell. A token, huh? Christ.

As he glared at the thing, Sam's last words to him rang ominously in his head.

He'd never sounded quite as uptight as he did then. "Dean, once you're free, once you're out? You gotta get up and run, no matter where you are or how you'll feel, and, trust me, you'll feel awful. You have to run and you can't stop. We know where you are. We'll find you. _I'll_ find you."

Scowling, Dean flipped the thing again. It had been exactly where Sam said it would be, which suggested... things. Unhappy things. Dean scowled harder because the anger was easier than anything else.

Nothing was real, here. Everything was _fake_. He'd hoped... well, it didn't matter what he hoped, did it?

Dean twisted his wrist until the point of the thing pressed against his chest. Then he hesitated.

"Dean."

Dean flinched badly, whirling around and pressing his back against a counter. "Jesus Christ," he snapped angrily, catching sight of a long trench coat. His breath hitched a bit when he registered that blood was splattered over the front, but he couldn't breathe out a single one of the many expressions of concern that cluttered his thoughts.

Castiel's eyes were fixated on the thing on Dean's hand. He took a half-step towards Dean, something that Dean was not okay with, damn it. He moved to the side, putting the table between him and Cas. Castiel seemed to get the point because he stopped abruptly, eyes moving to Dean's face.

"Where did you get that angel blade?" It was barely a question. If anything, it was more like a demand for information.

"Two for one sale at the Qwik Stop," Dean said flippantly. He scraped the toes of his shoe against the floor. "I thought it would go well with my boots."

Castiel's eyes narrowed. Dean straightened up slightly, not backing down. For the first time in days, Dean felt like he was finally standing on two feet.

But then Castiel was lifting a hand slightly and Dean was flinching back again, expecting violence or a blow or something.

His house wasn't the only damn facade, it seemed.

More embarrassingly, though, nothing happened. Dean felt heat rise to his cheeks, but before he could say something to negate the way he reacted, his eyes were caught by the token Gabriel left—by the angel blade.

It wasn't a blade anymore. It didn't even remotely resemble one. If anything, it resembled a bar of light—mostly because that was what it was, light. It was a pure, pure white, interrupted only by rising and falling golden script written in a language he could never even hope to decipher.

Eyes watering a bit from the display, he looked away from it, his attention falling on the only other interesting thing in the room—Castiel. When Castiel made as if to step around the table, Dean just adjusted his position accordingly. The blade was now a blade again and Dean quickly found out that the fastest way to make Castiel freeze was to point it in his direction.

Castiel looked dismayed. He stepped forward slightly, bumping up against the table. His hands curled around the back of the closest chair. "You could be happy here."

Dean stiffened. "Lies don't make me happy, Cas." He lifted his chin slightly, then said, "I will never bow to you, Cas. _Never_."

Castiel's head tilted slightly. He had a distant expression on his face now. He didn't seem to hear—or care about—what Dean had to say. He leaned over the table a little bit more, his hands tightening on the chair. "I will find you, Dean. You cannot hide from me." His eyes were deep and unsettlingly fathomless. "I know your soul."

"Yeah, we'll see about that," Dean hissed bitterly. Then he twisted his grip and shoved the blade into his chest.

For a second, there was just blinding, horrible pain and, panicked, all Dean could think was that he'd made a mistake, a huge, _huge_ mistake-

And then Dean was sitting up sharply, gasping for air. He was _awake_ and, wow, where the hell was he?

He looked left and right, trying to get a clue. The bedroom was too nice to be in a hotel and too personalized to be anything but owned. The comforter he was sitting on had a floral print and the air smelled like clothes detergent and old air fresheners.

Dean could only manage a quick glance around the room before he fell back, groaning. Every muscle in his body ached, like he hadn't moved in days—and maybe he hadn't. Who knew?

Dean shot up again when he realized, oh yeah, he knew who knew, and Dean had to be gone before he came back and shared his knowledge.

That was, of course, assuming Castiel wasn't already present.

Gritting his teeth at the thought of being a prisoner for one second longer, Dean shoved himself off of the mattress, forcing unsteady legs to support his weight. He grabbed at the bedside table with clumsy hands, accidentally knocking a photograph off of it as he used it to stand.

He didn't think about it at all until his foot shifted to the left and his weight shattered glass. Dean moved his shoe out of the way, staring down at the picture.

It was an image of a familiar looking woman with her arms around two familiar, but older, smiling kids—all three of whom were tellingly absent in this impossibly silent home.

After a moment, Dean shoved away from the table, using the wall as a crutch. Welcome home, he thought bitterly, reaching for the door knob.

At least he was still in fucking Kansas.

 

\-----

 

Lawrence was bigger than he remembered—or imagined. Dean was still trying to wrap his head around that. He couldn't understand how someone could trap him in his own mind like that and, worse, toss Sam in there with him.

Thank God for Sam—really. Sam had a fantastic bullshit detector, and if it wasn't for him getting out first, well... Dean would still be stuck in there, wouldn't he?

As he walked cautiously through the ghost town that was Lawrence, Dean tried to convince himself that he was really, really glad to be out in reality again.

Freedom had its own burdens. Lawrence wasn't the happy, tight knit community in his mind. Instead, it was creepy. Empty. Foreboding.

Dean must have ducked into about a dozen houses already. No doors were locked. Meals were left on the table, untouched. Televisions buzzed static continuously, like they tended to do around the supernatural, but he had yet to run into a single spirit or angel. But he was waiting for it—anticipating it and dreading it while he eyed the hidden spaces of Lawrence with paranoia and not a little fear.

The only comfort Dean could find in all this was that most of the cars were missing, as were clothes and personal affects. Other than that, though, Lawrence looked exactly like Zachariah's Croatoan future—complete with litter on the streets and figures darting in and out of his peripheral vision.

Dean tried to stay out of sight. He took to jumping in and out of people's backyards, stepping guiltily over abandoned children's toys and forgotten yard tools.

After jumping over one too many high walls, Dean, panting, made for a community center he could see over the wood fence. As it turned out, the building was just one of many in that particular plaza. The parking lot boasted prime spaces for a number of shops—all of which were as empty as the neighborhood streets.

Put off by the desolation, Dean made for the community building, walking quickly towards the glass doors. He stopped barely an inch from them, staring at the wall just beyond them.

There was a decent likeness of Castiel's vessel painted on the white brick wall. His face was made up in strokes of red, white, and black. A shaky hand wrote the words _believe in the lord_ just under his chin in black.

Dean backed away from the double doors, nearly tripping over his own feet. "Cas. What have you done?" He felt quivery and nauseated and, despite the burning sensation on both of his soles, he turned around and ran down the street—away from the building, away from the empty plaza, away from the graffiti.

About a mile and a half down the street, he saw a sight that he never thought would make him feel relieved—a tall church with a pointed roof. He ducked inside as soon as he could, almost slamming through the doors as he came upon them.

He stumbled half-way down the aisle before he realized that the church wasn't empty. Cautiously, he paused before approaching the other figure.

Dean wasn't exactly stealthy about his entrance, but the priest didn't seem to react much to his presence—just accepting it before he turned back to his contemplation of the cross. Dean didn't know how to feel about this. People tended to act more suspicious of him than that, and usually with good reason too.

Dean stopped in the aisle awkwardly. "Hey."

"My son," the father said distractedly, pulling his eyes away from the cross. He was a tall, reedy sort of guy with thinning red hair. He rose from the third pew unsteadily.

Frowning at him, Dean gestured back at the doors. "Padre, this whole town's... what's going on?"

The priest smiled vaguely, shrugging one shoulder. "Lawrence has been claimed in the name of the one called Castiel," he said, his eyes drifting back to the cross. "It is said that he will raze it and build upon its ruins a new place of worship."

Dean's eyes closed. "Jesus _Christ_ ," he muttered angrily. Realizing what he just said, he wrenched his eyes back open. The priest was staring at him curiously. "Sorry."

"I require no apologies," he said, and something about his tone was off.

Dean narrowed his eyes, rewinding the conversation in his head. "Are you just a tad bit worried?" he asked finally. "What, with Cas knocking down your church and the town all around it?"

"Why should I be?" The priest's eyes widened a bit. Behind Dean, the doors to the church opened again. "Who am I to question the will of a deity?"

There were more people at the door—ten of them, some of whom were wearing familiar jackets and clothes Dean could have only seen out of the corner of his eye. Son of a _bitch_. Dread curdled in his throat.

Dean looked away from them to glare at the priest. "Really? Dude, where's your _faith_?"

The man frowned at him. "Where is yours?" The priest shot him a distant, kindly smile. "You cannot run from Castiel forever, Dean. He will find you. He will _always_ find you." The people at the door started crowding up the aisle—some were old, some were young; some were pissed, some were excited.

One girl of the bunch met his gaze straight on with a happy little smile. "He wants you to come back," she crooned. "He wants you with him. You... you can be his first _disciple_."

Dean made a face before facing the priest again. "Yeah, this has been real swell, but, hey, got an appointment. See you later." With that, he turned away and walked towards the group, intending to get to the exit one way or another.

A boy stepped into his path with a scowl. He couldn't have more than seventeen years old, but he was looking at Dean like _he_ was the stupid one here. "Where the hell do you think you're going?"

Dean smiled. "Through you, brat," he said, and then promptly sank his fist in the kid's gut. The boy dropped to the ground, groaning. Dean darted for the door, shouldering a woman out of the way and pivoting just out of the grip of an old man.

Dean had a few advantages here. A major one was that he was more athletic than most of the others. Another one was that no one quite expected him to run out the door.

Unfortunately, they followed him all the way down the street—strange what religious vigor could do to a person these days, because even the oldest member stayed on his trail. The priest was right on his ass, shouting after him to accept his destiny.

Fortunately, no one seemed to anticipate the man who slipped easily out from behind a tree—not even Dean, who registered the sight of a shotgun before he recognized who was holding it.

Dean sprang abruptly to the left when the trigger was pulled. The priest fell to the floor right afterward. Dean stopped running about two feet away from his rescuer and turned to stare in disbelief at the fallen man. Everyone else stopped running to crowd around the priest, and the whole thing came to a standstill.

After a pause, Dean turned toward the gunman. Sam looked back at him underneath concerned eyebrows. "Told you I'd find you," he said softly.

Solid, dependable Sammy. Dean gaped at Sam for another moment before letting his face split into a huge smile. "Yes. Yes, you did."


	16. Chapter 16

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Chapter Sixteen

 

\-----

 

Reality came crashing down, like it tended to. Dean was allowed about three seconds of grinning at his awesome little brother before he was forced to face certain ugly facts.

One, they were still in Castiel's backyard. Two, they were outnumbered by a bunch of idiots who believed Castiel's crap about being a god. Three, Sam took one of the followers out of the running—literally.

"Dude," Dean said in an undertone. "You just shot a _priest_."

Sam made a bitch face at him. "Come on." He wiggled the gun slightly, keeping his voice low. " _Rock salt_."

"Oh," Dean said. Even to his own ears, he sounded disappointed. He looked at the fallen man and the people who stood frozen behind him, wide eyes focused on the obvious threat of the shotgun. "Boring."

Sam rolled his eyes and stepped in line with Dean. He had that falsely self-assured look on his face, the one that always came out when he was trying to convince people of something even he thought was bullshit. "Alright. So. Anyone else want to be martyred for their new religion?" He pumped the shotgun menacingly.

No one stepped forward. If anything, they all took a giant leap back, more afraid of death than anything else.

"Yeah, that's what I thought," Dean said with a sneer. Sam elbowed him slightly, shaking his head once. Too far.

Then the priest gasped his way back into consciousness, really throwing a wrench in the works. He immediately started crying out into the air for Castiel's guidance and help.

Sam blanched visibly. Realizing that Castiel might make house calls, Dean grabbed his brother's elbow, pulling him further down the street. "And now we run."

Despite his initial resistance, Sam was bright and was outstripping Dean with his long legs in no time—and they ran, a lot. Streets and buildings passed by in a bit of a blur. Dean was hurting all over by this point and the sprint they were doing was just ramming a nail in his coffin, but he didn't want to say anything.

He knew that, if he said anything, Sam would turn around and start carrying him and, no matter the urgency of their situation, that was just not _on_.

As they both ran, huffing and panting, Sam bitched loudly over his shoulder, saying, "How are we supposed to outrun a _god_ , Dean?"

They didn't dare look back to see if they were being followed.

Dean focused on the inevitably widening gap between his brother and sped up. He didn't say a word.

About three miles away (or two, Dean couldn't tell), they came to a main street. It, like every other street they passed, was empty. Breathless, Dean shoved at Sam's shoulder so he'd go left, which he did.

Sam slowed down on turns—he always did—and Dean picked up, moving ahead for once, so it was Dean who landed on his ass when he suddenly ran into a very unmovable object. He looked up, freezing when he put a name to the face.

"Aren't you supposed to be dead?"

Gabriel looked contemplative for all of three seconds before saying, "Aren't you?"

To Dean's surprise, Sam actually looked pleased at the angel's presence, stumbling out of his run towards the shorter guy. "Oh, good," he said faintly, color high in his cheeks. He clamped a companionable hand onto Gabriel's shoulder and may or may not have used him as a crutch. More importantly, though, was the fact that Gabriel _allowed_ him.

Because of that, Dean was rapidly realizing that Gabriel's sudden presence wasn't one to worry about. He shot an accusing look at Sam. "Dude, you guys are together?"

Gabriel smirked at him. "Presently or sexually?"

Sam went very pale and made a wheezing sort of noise. He yanked his hand free of Gabriel's shoulder. Then he put on an expression that let everyone know that, no, he did not just hear that and, no, he did not know what you were talking about, so stop. _Immediately_.

Dean pushed himself up from the ground and did a little smirking of his own.

Sam ignored him. "Bobby still monitoring the...?" He made a couple of meaningful gestures to Gabriel. Dean felt distinctly out of the loop.

Gabriel seemed to pause, listening to something they couldn't hear. "No need to watch it anymore." Then he snapped his fingers and there was Bobby—frazzled and tired looking with chalk all over his sleeves.

He took one look at Dean and instantly grabbed him, pulling him into a hug. "Boy," he started to say, sounding like he was winding up for a lecture, but then he just shook his head, tightening his arms around Dean's shoulders. Dean was touched—a little weirded out, but touched all the same.

Over Bobby's shoulder, Dean could see that Gabriel was eyeing his bare wrist obnoxiously. "I love a good family reunion, but could we cut this one short?" He shrugged as Bobby backed away. "Take it from me. Thwarted gods are grumpy gods."

As if to punctuate this thought, thunder struck down maybe a street away, snapping down against asphalt. Dean looked up, startled at the angry clouds that moved over what was a fairly nice day all of twenty minutes ago.

"Alright, you've convinced me," Dean said. He stepped closer to Sam, inadvertently completing the circle they formed. "Where's the car?"

Gabriel grinned. "Car? Oh, you're adorable." He lifted his hand and snapped his fingers.

 

\-----

 

Fucking _archangels_.

Since when was Antarctica an appropriate place to send humans?

"Siberia, actually!" Gabriel said, looking unbothered by the cold. This was the seventh place they appeared in as many minutes.

As far as Dean could tell, the reason why they bounced around so damn much was because, after about thirty seconds, the skies started getting dark and thunder started rumbling, and all these things, Dean was led to believe, meant that Castiel was getting close—too close, considering that they were all basically heretics in this brave new world.

Castiel was always right on their heels, which made Dean nervous. Gabriel had already stamped anti-angel sigils on Bobby's ribs and Hell didn't wipe out Sam's. Gabriel also said he was reasonably sure that Castiel didn't have vials of their blood around, nor enough knowledge of blood magic to know how to use them.

So there was only one real way Cas could be tracking them right now, and that way was Gabriel.

Gabriel was staring off into the distance with a strange expression. Already, dark, sickly looking clouds were building up on the horizon. Dean knew from experience that those clouds would be over their heads in about half a minute and, in that time, the air would be sucked dry of all moisture, thunder and lightning would light up the sky, and maybe a wannabe god would got off his high horse already and face them directly.

Gabriel seemed way too calm about this. "The kid's got stamina."

Dean made a face, trying desperately to contain his shivering. "That's nice. Hey, how about you drop us off somewhere nice and warm, huh? Before I climb into my own ribcage and die?" His sarcasm ended in an unplanned shout, but, hell, he wasn't the only one suffering. Next to Dean, Sam was bouncing lightly on his toes, his arms wrapped tightly around his torso. On the other side of him, Bobby was staying very still, hunching over and in on himself.

Gabriel's eyes darted in his direction. After a moment, he smiled. "There's an idea. Complimentary wild goose chases are my specialties." When the three of them just stared at him, uncomprehending, he waved a hand. "Please, don't thank me. I already know I'm a saint."

An epiphany arrested the expression on Sam's face. "Gabriel, _no_ ," he said through chattering teeth.

Gabriel smirked at him coyly, lifting his hand. "You got my number, Sammy. Call me." Then he snapped his fingers again.

Dean was suddenly, gloriously warm. The sun beat down on his face and the taste of salt coated his tongue. He uncurled slowly, every limb aching, but the cold didn't return. Cautiously, he celebrated, stretching as the warmth chased all the cold away.

They were in the middle of a park—if it could be called a park. Scraggly grass grew in patches here and there, interrupted a few times by low, red benches. Across the way was something that might have been a baseball diamond once upon a time.

After some shared scanning of the park for threats, the three of them looked at each other with expectant and, in Sam's case, glum expressions. Unlike the other times they did this, there was a gap in their circle—a great, huge Gabriel sized gap that Sam was staring at moodily. Also unlike the other times was the lack of menacing, unnatural weather patterns cluttering up the sky—no clouds, no thunder, no super dry air.

They waited for it, though—waited and waited and waited. All Dean heard was the low rumble of cars off in the distance and the bright chirp of happy birds overhead.

The return to normalcy was almost as eerie as his too perfect dream.

Finally, Bobby sighed, breaking the silence. He was eyeing Dean expectantly. "Well, where the hell are we now?"

 

\-----

 

They found out later that they were in Malibu, California.

Probably unnerved by the pink elephant in the room, Dean loudly lamented the lies of television, complaining about how he expected Malibu to be full of gorgeous, healthy people, long stretches of beautiful beaches, and women running slowly in red bathing suits. Instead, they got bad traffic, cramped architecture, and grouchy people who screeched at you if you stared at them too long.

Mostly, though, Dean complained about not being able to go to the beach. Despite the fact that they could practically taste the salt in the air, they weren't within walking distance of the beach from the hotel they were staying at. Sam didn't know which part bothered Dean more—the fact that he couldn't go or the fact that he _shouldn't_.

The shouldn't part of the equation happened very quickly. Bobby had barely secured them two rooms before Castiel was making headlines again by appearing on the news.

In hindsight, Sam figured that he shouldn't have been surprised that all Castiel wanted to talk about was Dean. Fortunately, the topic wasn't their _profound bond_ , which Sam was just damn sick of. Unfortunately, the topic was a request to Castiel's growing number of followers to locate Dean and get him back as soon as possible.

"He is not in trouble," Castiel informed the solicitous anchor. "He just requires... correction." Castiel must have done something awe inspiring or incredibly miraculous to prove himself to the producers because this particular channel was showing Castiel all day, every day.

It was so typical.

Sam was so used to this nonsense by now that he'd totally forgot about Dean—Dean who startled abruptly when Castiel appeared on the television.

When Castiel said he needed correction, Dean, who'd been staring at the screen with slack jawed fascination, buried his face in the pillow with a groan. He only groaned louder when Castiel starting doling out his personal information so that any of his followers could identify him on sight. After a quick, pissed off conference with Bobby in the other room, it was decided by everyone that Dean needed to stay indoors at all times.

Dean only bitched a little bit about this, which was probably a sign about how much this all bothered him.

Oddly enough, it was probably that interview with Cas that encouraged Dean to open a bit more to Sam. Previously, when asked about the dream they'd all been trapped in, Dean would do or say something evasive to get out of it. Sam didn't blame him. He kinda understood why. It was _painful_ , especially for Dean.

Knowing Dean, Sam expected the larger than life, family-centric fantasy. After their lives, Dean's mental paradise was bitterly coveted and more than a bit heartbreaking, and by more people that just Dean. Sam wanted it too. Even now, even knowing it was a fake, Sam found himself wishing he'd spent more time talking to John and Mary—an irrational desire in the end because, however convincing they were to Sam and Bobby, they were just extensions of Dean and maybe Dean's memories.

Still, though. He wished he'd wandered over to them for a little bit instead of sticking close to the people he'd somehow sensed were real. He wished he sulked less, talked more, and enjoyed the fantasy for what it was.

Dean had made an offhanded comment mind-controlled climate control before visibly wincing, biting down on his mouth. But he didn't immediately change the subject. Sam took that as a sign that he was okay to talk.

It took him a moment to come up with the right question. "When did you know it was… you know." Sam shrugged. Fake seemed like a harsh word. Gabriel was right, in a way. Real could be a subjective sort of word.

Dean smiled faintly, bitterly. "You know how, in your dreams, you could walking on the ceiling made of lava with the robot dog you never had in a house you've never seen, but everything makes perfect sense?" Sam fought down his instinctive frown. Dean had some weird dreams. "It was like that, for me. Even when things were suspicious, they still made sense."

Sam hesitated. He was lying on his bed and Dean was lying on his own. The television was pointedly turned off in front of them and most of the lights were dimmed, if not completely out. Sam was looking at Dean and Dean was vaguely turned in Sam's direction, but neither of them made eye contact.

It was easier to be truthful that way, Sam decided, folding his arm underneath his head and using it as a pillow.

"When I got suspicious, I was bombarded with fake memories meant to justify whatever incongruities I just stumbled across." Nothing ever made sense. If anything, it was just covered up and made more confusing.

The expression that passed over Dean's face right then was interesting—kind of a wince and a grimace and a bitter smile all at once. "The headaches, huh?" With a heavy sigh, he tossed himself on his back. Sam half-sat up, alarmed. He didn't realize Dean had been paying attention to his headaches within the dream—that he would naturally assume responsibility for them. "Fuck." He covered his face with his hands.

And that was the problem with being truthful to Dean, Sam concluded. Sometimes, Dean didn't want to hear it.

Later that night, Dean broke his promise and went out. He was stir crazy. He needed to get out, he said. What danger was there going to a bar? Who would remember that he was there?

There was little Sam and Bobby could do to stop him, besides wrestle him back inside, and who wanted to do that? Dean played _dirty_. They did, however, get him to wear sunglasses and a baseball hat, even though it was night time.

Anywhere else, he'd look ridiculous. Around here, though, people just assumed he was a celebrity desperately trying to go incognito—a fact that would normally appeal to Dean's ego, but… not nowadays.

Sam had the room to himself, which was a rare and normally valued experience. Instead of enjoying it, though, he tried to go to sleep.

He'd managed about twenty minutes of shut eye before he snapped up and out of bed at an odd sound. The clatter came from within the room's tiny bathroom.

Hoping it was just a minor earthquake or something, Sam nevertheless scooped up the only weapon they had at the moment and moved into the bathroom, mentally prepared for the worst.

Of course, the first thing Sam did after opening the door was drop the shotgun. Sam stared.

Pale and bleeding, Gabriel was wrestling free from the shower curtain—mostly by ripping the entire thing down, rod and all. He staggered out of the tub, each move more sluggish than the last. There was a red smear on the faucet where he must have hit his head.

"Well." Gabriel stepped on the floor in front of Sam, uselessly brushing at the wet sleeves of his jacket. "That was ambitious."

It took Sam a minute to find his voice. "How did you find us?"

"Blood, of course." Gabriel seemed to sway slightly. "That's how I found you before, remember?"

Sam's first thought was about how Kali must have taught him a few tricks. His second was just pure, irrational jealousy. He fought to bury these two thoughts and instead focused on Gabriel—Gabriel, who looked like he was drunk or injured or some terrible combination of the two.

Sam stepped out of the way and watched Gabriel march unsteadily toward the twin beds. "What's wrong?" he asked cautiously.

"What isn't?" he mumbled pessimistically, his back to Sam. He wiggled his fingers by his head. "I have my fingers in so many pies, you have no idea." Gabriel groaned. He flopped against the comforter of Dean's bed. "I do not have the juice to have an epic smack down with my brother. Nope. No sirree. Not gonna happen."

Sam rounded the bed, approaching Gabriel's head. He got a look at the gash on his head, not surprised that it was already healing. "Are you hurt?"

Gabriel's eyes, which had been falling closed, suddenly opened again, like Sam had just said something significant.

Sam ignored that. Gabriel had a _head injury_ from falling in the shower. That caused more damage than a simple surface cut. Even if the angel did heal fast, it still needed to be check out. But how could Sam do that? Frowning, he looked around the room with a bit of despair. They had so little supplies on them. There was a bucket of ice from the hotel vending machine and a bunch of towels. That was about it.

Sam turned back to Gabriel, about ready to ask if he'd mind waiting while Sam ran down to the hotel manager to get a first aid kit. He didn't even get the first word out before Gabriel's mouth was hot and hard on his—and brief. Sam stumbled back and into his bed, abruptly sitting down when it hit his knees.

What the hell did he do to deserve that?

Gabriel was on his knees on Dean's bed, facing Sam. He wasn't really smiling, but there was an undeniably pleasant look on his face. Sam's heart beat picked up a bit. "How are you real?" he whispered reverently, eyes darting all over Sam's face. His expression shuttered slightly and he sat down heavily on his feet. "A hundred Tuesdays. Other guys would be holding a grudge."

Sam swallowed, pushing up to a standing position. "That's... that's the head injury talking," he said, unnerved—and kind of pleased too, but that wasn't knowledge up for public consumption. "Let me get a towel."

He wet one of the hand towels under the sink and wrung it out before tucking some ice into a fold. Holding it carefully, he walked back to Dean's bed, pressing it lightly against Gabriel's bruised forehead. The cut had already sealed, but the area was still slightly swollen. Sam couldn't help but wonder why Gabriel had appeared in such a clumsy way—and, sure, Gabriel had already answered that, but what kind of answer was that? What was he doing that drained him so much that he couldn't do a simple landing?

Gabriel's only reaction to the ice water was to grab Sam's thighs. His fingers curled warmly and gently around the back. "Everything I've done to you," he muttered, staring at Sam's stomach. "You really— _really_ —aren't holding it against me."

Sam lifted the towel away. "Should I?"

Gabriel looked up, finally looking like himself again. He had one eyebrow raised sardonically. "Uh, duh. I would, if I were you."

"That's the thing though." Sam pressed the folded cloth against Gabriel's forehead again. "I really don't think that's up to you."

And there it was—that look again. The same warm eyed look that had had him nearly crawling into Gabriel's lap the first time. Swallowing, Sam carefully set his free hand on Gabriel's shoulder, wide spread fingers mapping out the bone. He paused, making sure this was okay. Gabriel merely smiled and slid his hands up Sam's jeans, stopping only when his thumbs were high enough to brush the bottom of Sam's front pockets.

God, Sam wanted him again. He started bending his neck down. Gabriel started straining upward.

The door swung open, hitting the wall.


	17. Chapter 17

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Chapter Seventeen

 

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Sam deeply loved his brother. He wasn't going to lie. So maybe they had codependency issues. So maybe they had martyr complexes. Whatever it was in the eyes of other people, Sam knew what it meant to him and Dean. It meant damn near everything. They were older now and their worlds had expanded, but it was no different than they were kids. They might have other people to care about, but it always came back to them and their bond.

They were alpha and omega to each other. Hell, Heaven, stretches of soullessness, absences, harsh words, and lies? They hurt like hell, but they never dented the relationship between Sam and his brother. It was forged in fire and grief and protectiveness, and each test only made the relationship stronger.

Still. Fratricide was sounding nice right about now.

Dean had walked in on them without a care, chewing on the last half of a burrito. He was completely oblivious to what he interrupted. He didn't even seem to notice how the two of them sprang away from each other, like the space between them caught on fire.

Dean didn't even notice Gabriel until he'd already closed the door behind him. He did a double-take, then rolled up the wrapper for his meal, tossing it towards the trash can. He was scowling, which did not bode well for any of them.

"Good," Dean snapped, crossing his arms over his chest. "It's about time you came back." And then he started asking questions—the who, the how, the what. The why of motive didn't seem as important to him, except when it came to Gabriel's. Dean could hardly believe he was willingly helping them.

Neither could Sam, for that matter, but, considering his situation, he was a little more willing to have faith.

Sam was conflicted about this. He wanted his brother to push forward and take charge—because that was what Dean did. He took crazy situations and he made sense of them. But he couldn't help but resent Dean's pushiness now because, well, _Gabriel_. Sam wasn't stupid enough to assume he knew any part of Gabriel, but he thought he had some minor grasp on his moods, and Gabriel was _not_ in the mood to be pushed around.

"When are you planning on telling us what's going on?" Dean was saying, his mouth twisting. "I mean, what's _really_ going on."

"I tell you when I'm damn good and ready," Gabriel snapped. "And not a second sooner."

Expression thunderous, Dean started to approach him. "You son of a-"

Sam caught Dean's shoulder and pulled him away. There was no way a fight between the two of them would be anything but ugly. "Back off, Dean," he hissed in an undertone.

"You're defending him?" Dean jabbed a finger in Gabriel's direction. Now, his ire was firmly focused on Sam. "He's the only one with full intel on what's going-"

Sam leveled a withering stare at his brother and then pushed Dean out of the door and into the hallway, though not before jamming a hat on his thick skull. Once they were outside, Sam hissed, "He just spent eighteen hours playing Cat and Mouse with Cas, who, if you remember, tends to greet archangels by _blowing them up_." Sam kept a quelling hand on Dean's chest. He shot his brother a dark, warning look. He was not above physically barring Dean's way into the room, and Dean knew it too. "Lay off him."

Dean looked mutinous for all of three seconds before looking away guiltily, shifting his weight back and forth before he looked at Sam again. "I get it. I do. And I'm sorry for pushing, okay?" he said gently. "But how much time do you think Cas is gonna give us? An hour? A freaking day?"

Sam relented slightly. "I'll talk to him." He let his hand fall down. "But, just… wait, okay?"

Before Dean could make a promise, the door was opening behind them. Gabriel staggered out into the open air, looking pained. "We don't have time to wait, kids," he said, leaning on the door. "Castiel followed me here."

Dean looked alarmed. "What? _Now_?" he sputtered. "We can't face him now!"

Gabriel shot Dean a look that said that the angel thought he was a particularly stupid child. "Uh, _duh_ ," he said, making an exaggerated expression. Still looking completely miffed, he snapped his fingers.

Coolness of the ocean breeze suddenly drained from the air. The near constant rumble of the Pacific Coast Highway disappeared. The vague haze and smog that blurred the sky lifted, leaving behind an inky black sky lit up with stars.

Bobby stumbled oddly next to him. "Coulda gave a guy some warning," he complained, flushing slightly. Dean grumbled his agreement, shooting a glare at the back of Gabriel's head.

Sam looked around, curious. They were in the desert, in the middle of a cracked, poorly maintained stretch of asphalt. It was a highway of some sort, but there were no signs identifying which one it was. There were no cars in sight. There were no buildings either—save for one.

In front of them, there was a barely paved road in the middle of the sand and dirt, and at the end of that road was a building—a house free and clear of the community of a neighborhood.

"Awesome," Gabriel said faintly. "It's still here." He started walking. It was up that road that Gabriel went, so they followed.

Up they all went. The house was set somewhat above the road itself, set back far enough so that the highway would have never bothered it. It looked small and unassuming in the distance, but Sam could hardly trust that—not when a former Trickster was involved.

A former Trickster who, despite having willingly come to this place, was walking so slow, each step slower than his last.

Dean and Bobby had taken point while Sam lingered several steps behind them. The sight of their backs reminded him that he couldn't just… run ahead and ask Gabriel what was wrong. They wouldn't approve. Gabriel might have saved all of them from Cas, but there was a long, unhappy history between the three of them and Gabriel. They didn't trust him. His motivations were as clear as mud, as usual, and no one could say for sure that Gabriel wasn't just distracting them so they didn't interfere with whatever the hell Castiel was doing nowadays.

Sam was pretty sure Gabriel was on his side, which was all the more reason not to defend him to Dean and Bobby. The mistake that was Ruby cast a long shadow, even now. More recent events—what he did while he was soulless—made his judgments all the more dubious to his brother.

No matter how much his brother snapped and said it wasn't him, it wasn't his fault, the trust between them had been severely broken.

Dean wouldn't trust anything he said about Gabriel—he couldn't.

So Sam just had to keep his mouth shut and hope that Gabriel could prove himself to Dean and Bobby by himself.

And, while he kept his mouth shut, he let himself wonder why Gabriel had bothered to approach him when they were all in that dream.

Dean was at the center of this. Gabriel said so himself. So why did he waste time talking to Sam? Why not go after Dean and win his trust instead?

It was so confusing.

He shifted his focus to the external world because, hey, the internal wasn't going to solve itself any time soon. He noticed that they were getting closer to the house. Tan, fine sand crackled under Sam's shifting weight. The monotonous stretch of the sand was broken by small hills and scraggly brush—and, of course, the house.

And what a house it was. Sam was no expert in construction, but even to his eye, the house looked a little weird. It was a dark, dusky pink overall and it looked like some giant hand had gently placed cylinders in the sand all grouped together, and then plastered them so that they were one. Some nouveau architecture thing, Sam guessed, but he really wouldn't know. The one art history class he took focused mostly on cave paintings and fertility statues.

Noticing movement a little closer to him, Sam pulled his eyes away from the house. In front of him, Dean and Bobby's heads were bent together. Their voices were low—almost too low for Sam to hear, and he was barely a foot behind them. They were obviously trying to keep Gabriel from overhearing.

"Still in California," Dean said, hazarding a guess.

Bobby snorted. "Nevada." He was unhappily using his hat as a fan.

"Arizona!" Gabriel called from way ahead of them, his voice insufferably smug. Dean and Bobby both cursed. Sam tried not to smile. He turned his attention back to the approaching house. It was much closer now, almost in reach.

There were no corners anywhere, not even in the overhang that shaded a parked, vintage car to their left. Tinted, numerous windows glinted and glittered in the walls. A tall, scraggly cactus listed lazily to the left next to the heavy, wooden door.

There wasn't a damn person in sight, other than the four of them.

Gabriel was fiddling with the door. As they came up from behind him, the door opened, revealing a darkened hallway that curved back and out of sight.

Gabriel sighed happily, took one step into the house, and then fell, face first, into the plush white carpet at his feet.

This was met with an awkward silence. Then, gustily, Dean sighed.

"You're one hell of a host," he told Gabriel, nudging at his leg with his shoe.

Sam shoved past him, brusquely ordering Dean to take his feet. Rolling his eyes, Dean complied and, between the two of them, managed to get Gabriel situated on a square, hard looking couch in the next room.

Everything looked almost painfully expensive, from the high ceilings to the weird, rigid furniture. Sam was afraid to touch anything. Dean didn't have such hang-ups, so it was him who bounded through the house and shouted back his findings. There were rooms and beds and bathrooms, he said, but everything had been placed... oddly. Bobby commented that it looked sort of like a person who was trying to mimic the looks of a human home, but couldn't really relate.

Who might have decorated this house had occurred to Sam almost immediately, but he was reluctant to share his epiphany with Dean and Bobby, too alarmed at the implications of it.

Gabriel bounced them from abandoned house to horrible nature conditions to a hotel before transporting them in front of what could only be his own home. How bad was this whole situation, then? How close was Cas was to finding them? How close were they to losing this fight?

It had to be bad—at least, bad enough that a hardass like Gabriel felt the need to hide humans in his own personal space.

Gabriel didn't strike him as the sharing type.

He also didn't strike Sam as the _unconscious_ type either, but, hey, there he was, imitating a breathing plank of wood. Jesus. Sam rubbed his hand over his face.

Despite his worry about Dean breaking things, despite his concern that that Bobby was snooping, despite that nagging feeling in his gut that told him he should babysit the others, he stayed by Gabriel, waiting for a sign of improvement.

He fell asleep in the shorter couch perpendicular to Gabriel's. He'd had to contort himself to fit, but he managed to find a place where he could marginally relax.

And he did relax for a bit—right up to the point where someone touched his knee.

He jerked out of his sleep instantly, blinking. When nothing jumped out as him as a threat, he rubbed at his eyes, sitting up.

"What happened?"

Gabriel frowned. He was crouching by Sam's couch. "I went to sleep?"

Sam glared at him fuzzily. "That wasn't sleep, Gabriel. If that was anything, that was a coma." He rubbed his face again, trying to chase away the last of the groggy feeling. "I thought angels didn't sleep."

"We don't. Usually." Gabriel's frown deepened before it suspiciously disappeared. "I'm all better now. Really."

"Is that why you woke me up at..." Sam looked at his watch. "Four in the morning? To announce that you are better?"

Gabriel beamed at him. "Nope."

A thought occurred to Sam. He perked up slightly and straightened up on the cushions, trying to tell his stiff, aching muscles that he was still young and they should get over themselves already.

"Got something better in mind?" And, no, damn it. He didn't sound hopeful.

Gabriel looked reluctant to let him down. "Sadly, no. I will keep that in mind, though." Leering, he shoved himself up to his feet before retreating. He spared a moment to brush the back of his knuckles against Sam's cheek. "Get up. I want to take you to an old friend."

He disappeared into the hallway leading to the front door, his coat the last thing Sam saw whipping around the corner.

Sam hesitated, then scrubbed at his face again. He lurched to his feet, shoving his shoes on mostly through autopilot and then followed after Gabriel, who was pacing just in front of the door. He looked agitated and, worse, he was letting Sam see it.

"Old friend of yours?" He asked this without preamble, suddenly aware that Gabriel hadn't been very specific.

A strange, twisted smile played out across Gabriel's face. "No. One of yours," he said quietly. And then, without a snap, without a rush, without any verbal warning at all, the darkened house disappeared from view. In its place was almost blinding white—white walls, white floors, white columns. It made him think about what old Greek temples must have looked like back in the day—pristine and almost impossibly perfect.

And columns, columns everywhere, and not a place to sit, geez.

He spun around once, realizing how true this was—how removed this place was from any sort of creature comfort. He looked to Gabriel for answers, only to see that Gabriel was staring in a particular direction, his expression oddly expectant.

It was only natural to turn and see what he was looking at—a darkly garbed figure against so much white.

Once he understood, once he recognized who he was looking at, Sam took a sharp step back.

" _C-Castiel_." The choked out word echoed throughout the empty, white building.


	18. Chapter 18

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Chapter Eighteen

 

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"Sam." Castiel seemed as shocked as Sam was, but he handled it better. He straightened slightly in his black suit, pulling his shoulders out of their initial slump. There was so much self-consciousness in that single gesture that Sam nearly forgot to be afraid.

"It's good to see you," he said sincerely, approaching Sam and Gabriel with quiet footsteps. His eyes flickered over Sam, like he was looking beyond the surface layer, beyond the outer shell. His eyebrows pressed together slightly. For a moment, he looked sad. "Even if it's only a past you."

Sam stared at him, then sent a long, demanding look in Gabriel's direction. He didn't know whether to deck him for this or duck behind him for protection.

"Whose fault is that?" Gabriel shot Sam a meaningful look. "That there is no present or future Sam to visit?"

Hint decoded. Sam took a wary step backwards, away from Castiel, and then it hit him—where they had to be.

"Christ." It was somewhat comforting to see reproachful looks from both of them for that, but only just. Sam's mind was running wild with possibilities. He looked at Gabriel. "You took me into the _future_?"

Gabriel looked pleased that he figured it out so quickly. "Yup. Fifty years into the future, actually." He casually stuck his hands in his pockets. Rocking back on his heels, he said, "Didn't take Castiel that long to wreck the world. Not even a full human lifetime."

There was new tension around Castiel's eyes. He looked oddly wary. "You're still bitter."

Gabriel flashed him a wide, insincere smile. "Oh, _extremely_."

"You've been here before?" Sam asked hoarsely. And he hadn't given Sam at least a heads up? What an _asshole_.

"It's been five years since his last visit." Castiel was rubbing his shoulder, his eyes glued to his brother. "As you can see, nothing has changed, brother. _Nothing_." There was something horribly desperate in that announcement, something that invited sympathy.

But not from Gabriel, it seemed. "That's what happens when you break the world, Cas," he spat. "It tends to stay that way—in _pieces_."

Sam might as well have not been present. This was an old argument between the two of them—five years old, he'd bet. He stood up straight and tried not to inadvertently interfere because this, this tension between the two of them? It had nothing to do with him. It was none of his business.

It hurt to keep quiet, though. He had so many things he wanted to say, so many things he wanted to ask, especially of this Castiel, who seemed nothing like the one who'd given them that impossible ultimatum so recently.

This Castiel hardly seemed like a victorious new god.

If anything, he looked _human_ , especially when he said quietly, as if heart heavy, "You will leave me here, alone?"

Gabriel seemed tense, uncomfortable, and vaguely guilty all at once. He rolled his shoulders and purposefully turned his back on Castiel. "As much as I hate to admit it, you still have some use to me," he muttered, folding his arms over his chest.

Castiel's eyes flicked briefly over to Sam and then back to Gabriel's tense shoulders. "If you are trying to teach a lesson, Gabriel, I believe you chose the wrong Winchester."

Sam's instinctive response, defensive and slightly hurt, slipped out before he could consider the consequences. "And what the hell is that supposed to mean?" His raised voice echoed in the empty hallway, sending his words, suddenly infinitely weaker, back at him. Sam felt chilled, feeling very much like the last human last on this Earth—which, he thought with a shiver, he very well might be.

Castiel was staring at Sam now, the gaze suddenly too penetrating, too curious, like he was a novelty. Soon, though, those rusty people skills of his kicked in.

"It's… no offense," Castiel said awkwardly, raising his hands in what may have been an apologetic gesture in another life.

Gabriel was eyeing him now too, consideringly, over his shoulder. "Maybe he's not the one who should see this, but at least you won't break his heart."

Castiel looked at Sam a little longer, his head cocked to the side like he was seeing Sam in a new light. Finally, he whispered, "I understand." Thankfully, he turned his not insignificant gaze on his brother. "That is a kindness I would not have expected of you, Gabriel. And it is one that I clearly do not deserve."

Gabriel spun back around dramatically, rolling his eyes. "Didn't do it for you. Nothing puts cement in Dean's shoes faster than a chance to be an angsty bitch."

"Don't." Sam glared at Gabriel. "Dean has a right to grieve." And he would, if he saw this—Castiel, alone in the mausoleum of the world.

"So do you." Gabriel bobbed his head in Sam's direction once, his arms still crossed over his chest. "But he wallows in it. You don't." Gabriel smirked slightly. "We don't need people to angst around and wonder 'what if'. We need people to act. And, if there was one good thing about those six months that weren't, it was learning that you are an ambitious, decisive little bastard when you're grieving." He wiggled his eyebrows at Sam knowingly.

Sam gritted his teeth, taking half a step towards Gabriel. _How dare he_ , that son of a-

Sam took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He bit down on his first three responses—anger had no practical use here—before turning to face Castiel fully, ignoring Gabriel. "What happened, Cas?"

Before Castiel could answer, Gabriel was already interrupting. "Yeah, I don't want to hear this crap again," he said with a bitter smile. He lifted his hand in the air. "Call me when the whining's over?" He snapped his fingers suddenly and disappeared, leaving no trace of his presence on the white, pristine floors.

What a brat, Sam thought, glaring at the empty space.

After a moment, Sam turned to shoot a wary look in Castiel's direction, only to find that the angel—former angel? God?—was staring back at him with equal trepidation.

"Question still stands, Cas."

Looking conflicted, Castiel nodded slowly. "Walk with me."

He didn't wait for Sam to respond. Instead, he took off down one of the long, white corridors, his arms folded lightly behind his back.

Sam hesitated, glancing around for Gabriel—was he really going to leave Sam alone with their self-proclaimed new God?—before shrugging and following after.

He caught up with Castiel in a few, long strides, and, for several minutes, they walked like that in silence—shoulder to arm, the only two living things in this place. It seemed more bizarre than anything else that Sam was worrying the most about scuffing up the floor with his shoes, but he kept these worries—and every other concern—locked up inside of his chest.

Finally, Castiel spoke, his voice low and hesitant. "I remade the world into a better place." He smiled distantly, as if remembering. "There was… peace, of a kind. No crimes, no violence, no hatred. Everything and everyone, in perfect harmony."

"That sounds…" Sam paused, then spoke the truth. "Too good to be true."

Castiel was nodding, his smile falling. "I was prideful. I thought I understood… everything. But I did not." His calm delivery of simple facts broke suddenly, making his voice shaky. "You don't understand. The power I had at my fingertips-"

His eyes shot to Sam's. His wide, desperate gaze looked all too human all of a sudden, and too much like looking into a mirror of the past.

He didn't look like a god.

So Sam put his hand on the shoulder next to him. They came to a stop in the middle of the corridor, framed by long, white columns. "I understand," he said softly, sympathetically. "I understand all too well, actually."

Castiel blinked several times and then looked down. "I suppose you would," he said to the floor.

Feeling awkward all of a sudden, Sam removed his hand. "Um, I'd like to think you weren't yourself by the end," Sam said kindly, rubbing the back of his head.

Castiel looked up and smiled at him gently. "So would I. But I have spent too many years lying to myself for my own comfort. I do not see the point of continuing to do so now." He looked out across the endless hallway, his eyes shuttered and his mouth pulled into a frown.

Oh, God. _Cas._ Sam looked away quickly, not wanting to reveal his distress. Castiel was the best of them in the beginning, the one with the most to lose and the one most willing to lose it—just to do what was _right_. Even when the rest of them lost hope, he still had faith in a better world. Even when _he_ lost hope, he still remembered and he'd fought for it—fought tooth and nail. He was punished for it and he was killed twice.

It seemed so damn wrong that the person who'd fought so hard to save the world was the one who would also end it.

"Dare I ask what happened to us?" Sam asked, his voice coming out in a rasp. He rubbed the back of his sleeve over his eyes.

Castiel was watching him curiously. "You followed your brother, and Bobby followed you both. And Dean, he…" A strange expression played over Castiel's face. It was a mix of grief and fondness, and Sam was suddenly replaying Cas and Gabriel's conversation, of the 'kindness he didn't deserve'.

Sam flushed red, embarrassed by this revelation. It was one thing to know your brother had a yen for one of your friends. It was quite another to know that the feelings were mutual.

Castiel's voice, when it came again, was low and musing. "I do not understand why I thought he would say yes to me when he was so adamantly against saying yes to Michael."

It was a different situation, Sam wanted to say. Instead, he found himself muttering, "He loved you."

Castiel blinked rapidly. "Yes." He smiled, though there was no humor or enjoyment in it. "That's more reason to say no, isn't it?" Castiel cleared his throat, looking down at the floor again. His voice was gruff. "He was far seeing, more than we gave him credit for."

"More likely, his gut feeling gave him the heads up," Sam muttered, scuffing his shoe against the endlessly white ground. Dean was a bright guy, but he didn't think things through all the time.

Castiel tilted his head, parsing through that. It reminded Sam so much of the old Cas, it burned. Sam looked away once more, helpless and hopeless and frustrated all at once, but knowing that, however it felt, it still wasn't his place to comment.

It wasn't his future. _It would never be his future._

But it was Castiel's—this Castiel. And knowing that made him feel just awful—which was just freaking _useless_ in the end, wasn't it?

Clenching his eyes shut for a moment, Sam bit his lip, trying to stay quiet. But, in the end, he just couldn't.

"I'm so sorry, Cas," he blurted out. He shoved his hands deep into his jacket pockets. "That you're all alone here. Isn't there anyone else… Heaven, Hell, Purgatory?"

Castiel was eyeing him now, his expression indecipherable. "I devoured them all. Every last one of them."

Sam seized up, every muscle in his body tightening at that news. And, as he did, Castiel watched him. On top of everything else, his calm expression was absolutely chilling. It was then that Sam knew that, as much as Cas might have regretted it in hindsight, he'd completely justified the annihilation of all souls just to sustain himself. And, that, somehow, he still believed in that justification even now.

After a long moment, Castiel looked away. "You should go now," he said quietly. He lifted his head and shifted his gaze down the hallway. Following the hint, Sam looked down that hallway too.

Gabriel was there, his stance wide and his hands at his sides. His expression was absolutely unreadable. Sam didn't know what to do with the relief that flooded him them—the relief that came when he realized that Gabriel hadn't abandoned him after all.

He shared one last look with Castiel, and then hurried over to Gabriel's side, something tense inside of him loosening with every step he took.

The other angel looked incredibly strained, but he was making a valiant attempt to hide it. Sam knew him better now, so he ignored it, the smirk Gabriel shot his way, shooting a look back down the hallway at Castiel's stiff profile. He watched as the angel—former angel, former god?—glanced back at them, nodding once, before continuing down the hallway.

In the end, it was Sam who broke the silence. "He doesn't want to be alone anymore."

Gabriel shrugged. "Hey, who wants to, these days?" He sounded distracted and distant. Three guesses why.

Swallowing slightly, Sam turned to face Gabriel fully. "Are you going to take him back with us?"

Gabriel shot him a pitying look. " _Sam_." And then, quietly, he said, "He never asked to be brought back."

Sam frowned. "But… you said that he didn't-" The penny dropped rather spectacularly. He found himself choking on air, staring at the archangel with dismay. "No, there's- he's- _Gabriel_!"

"He asked twice already. I'm not going to make him ask a third time." Gabriel was avoiding his gaze, and he did it a bit more then too by ducking his head. "And it's not like he can do it himself. He doesn't have the juice for it." Gabriel lifted his eyes just high enough to fix on Sam's collarbone, but he went no higher. "Just enough juice left him to live forever, not enough for him to do anything else."

He sounded absolutely miserable. Sam watched him twist his sleeve, feeling like his heart was shattering, just a little bit, for his old tormentor. " _Gabriel_."

Gabriel's eyes jerked up to him suddenly, and then he was babbling. "He can't- I can't just _leave_ him here, and I can't bring him back and-"

And Sam thought _he_ was upset. The archangel was falling apart right in front of him, his characteristic confidence and arrogance fleeing him the moment he needed them the most.

"Gabriel," Sam snapped, though not unkindly. He grabbed the Gabriel's shoulders. If he thought he could get away with shaking him, he would. " _Get a grip_."

Gabriel stared up at him for a long time before his expression finally blanked. He pulled Sam's hands off of him, straightening up to his full height as if preparing for what he had to do.

In a second, he was the archangel the Bible warned you about—fierce, absolute, and powerful.

But, for a second after that, when he squeezed Sam's captured hands with his own, when he looked up and held Sam's gaze, he was just Gabriel again. "Don't hate me," he begged softly.

And then he was gone, gone after Castiel to finish his last duty to his brother.

Sam let out a shaky breath, sticking his hands back in his pockets. He leaned hard against a nearby pillar, letting it brace most of his weight. He smoothed a heavy hand over his face.

It wasn't the same as Madison—it _wasn't_. With Castiel, he'd already hurt everyone he was going to hurt. This wasn't prevention. This wasn't saving anyone, even from themselves.

And, yet… it was a certain type of salvation, wasn't it?

He only knew one thing for certain, though—waiting for Gabriel to return was the worst five minutes he'd ever suffered through, and it would haunt him for the rest of his life.

There was no warning. Gabriel was gone, and then suddenly, he wasn't. Sam didn't hear a damn thing, but he certainly sensed it—it being Gabriel's presence behind his back. It felt like air was being displaced, shoved out to make room for the archangel.

Sam bit his lip, waiting for him to say something, but he said nothing.

Tentatively, he broke the silence. "You're a good brother." He turned around to see that Gabriel was there, head bowed, eyes trailing over his own stretched open hand.

Gabriel snorted, dropping his hand back down by his side. "If I was better, I could have foreseen this. Stopped it from ever happening." The archangel was eyeing Sam now under his lashes, something about his expression pleading.

"Could you have?" Sam asked curiously.

Gabriel swayed slightly, as if saying 'well…' before shrugging helplessly. "This is one of many futures, Sam." The twist of his lips was bitter. "Even we're not all knowing. What we do know—what we can foresee—only barely scratches the surface."

Heartened by that, Sam took a step closer. "Then this doesn't have to happen. Not in our time line."

"I'm working on it," Gabriel muttered. He nodded toward Sam. "And so are you and your knucklehead brother. More than you know."

"Then we'll beat this," Sam promised fiercely. He gestured at the white walls, the long columns, the dying sunlight that painted everything a dull orange. "We'll defy this future, just like we defied Zachariah's 2014."

Gabriel blinked several times. Sam wanted to say that it was the last bit of sunlight in his eyes that was giving them that sheen, but he couldn't be sure. He looked away uncomfortably because, as much as Dean complained about people being emotional, Sam couldn't handle it any better.

Gabriel said softly, "God, I hope so, Sammy." When Sam dared to look back, Gabriel was smiling at nothing in particular. His eyes jumped to Sam's. After moment, Gabriel offered his hand, palm up and fingers slightly curled. "Let's go home."


	19. Chapter 19

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Chapter Nineteen

 

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Say what you wanted about the weird layout of the house—and the pink, don't forget the pink!—but the kitchen was rather nice. It had granite counter tops and a gigantic fridge. Steel fixtures gleamed brightly in the low light of the bulbs above. The sink was big enough to sit in.

Desperately needing some breakfast, Dean opened the fridge. He closed it again almost immediately because it was too great, too awesome to behold. He opened it, peering into the cooled space. Some wonderful, _beautiful_ person had stocked the shelves full of food and beer.

After the awe died down, Dean got to work. He had the optimistic idea to make omelets for everyone, and was just reaching for the carton of eggs when Sam entered the kitchen.

Sam was pale, strained, and shaking, and he should have been none of these things, had he been sleeping like he should have been. Dean put two and two together and got meddling fucking archangel.

Dean bypassed the carton for a beer. It was happy hour somewhere, he figured, closing the door one last time. Besides, he _needed_ this, clearly. There was no other way he was going get out of this alive with his mind intact.

"So. Where the hell were you?" Dean asked mildly, leaning against the fridge.

Sam chuckled roughly, rubbing hands over his face. "I'm not sure, but I think the right question is not where but when." Before Dean could ask him to clarify that cryptic response, Sam was looking at him with a tired, miserable expression. He covered his face with his hands, muffling his words. "Dean. We… we gotta save Cas."

"Sure," Dean said, shooting his brother a falsely bright smile. "But, first things first: let's save Hitler."

Sam's hands dropped from his face. He was frowning. "Dean-" he started to say, sounding so _disappointed_.

"What?" Dean snapped. With a vicious twist of his wrist, he took off the top to the bottle and tossed it to the side. "The guy's off on the deep end. _Beyond_ redemption." He took a long swig of the bitter drink, needing some buffer between him and his brother's puppy dog eyes. "He ripped down the wall in your head, remember?"

"He was just-" Sam bit off whatever he was about to say.

"Just what, Sam?" Dean snapped challengingly, daring Sam to make excuses.

Sam shrugged helplessly. "Trying to stall us?"

"Yeah. Exactly." Dean shoved away from the fridge. "He was trying to keep us from stopping him. He knew what he was doing, and he knew it was wrong." Dean was almost out of the kitchen before a thought occurred to him. He whipped around angrily, approaching his brother again. "And, in case you haven't noticed, he's just declared war on free will and choice, so don't _tell me_ he needs to be saved!"

Almost as soon as the words were ripped out of his mouth, Dean turned away from his brother. He pressed a hand against his stomach. God, he was going to be sick. _Cas… why do you do this to me?_

"So, where were you?" he bit out. "When, whatever."

"Still in Kansas, I think. In a temple built over Lawrence." Sam hesitated. "Fifty years from now."

Dean considered that for a moment before letting out a low sigh. He pretended to busy himself with the contents of an empty drawer. "So how was that brave new world?"

"Wasn't much of one, really. Cas was the only one left. Everyone else was..." Sam trailed off. Dean didn't need him to finish in order to get the picture. Oh, he _knew_.

Dean steeled himself. "Well. Isn't that a good reason to fry his feathery ass." It wasn't really a question.

Something shifted and then Sam's voice was rising belligerently behind him. "So what, you're just going to gank him? For something that hasn't even happened yet?"

It was a good thing Dean wasn't facing Sam anymore, because Sam was starting to get that self-righteous tone in his voice. And, damn it, the way Dean felt right now, he was not above decking the bastard if he kept pushing. As it was, Dean focused on a rusting nail in the wall, counting backwards from ten.

If Dean was going to gank Cas, it wasn't going to be because of what he might do. It was going to be because of what he'd already done and, hell, Cas had already given him a shitload of ammunition, didn't he? From Crowley and the lying and onward! Dean hardly needed the future as an excuse.

It didn't mean he looked forward to it because... this was Cas he was talking about, here. Cas, their nerdy angel, the little solider that could. It seemed so goddamn surreal, like a dream, but without the comfort of not being real.

Dean tried to focus on Sam's demands. He had to be smart about this. He had to be practical. "How else to spare the world of him? Men, women, children." Dean shrugged, like he didn't care. "Just gotta figure out how to do, is all."

The silence that fell between them was tense. Dean could feel his brother's gaze like a weight in the middle of his back.

Finally, Sam broke the quiet, his voice lacking the anger Dean expected. "Man, you can't do this to me."

"Do what?" Dean snapped.

Sam's voice was still. So. Fucking. Gentle. "Pull that hardass hunter routine, like you don't even care."

Dean was quiet for a moment. He responded too late. "I don't." Self-consciously, he averted his eyes to the ground. "He lost all freebies from me when he-" Dean sucked in a huge breath. He shot a look over his shoulder at Sam and bristled at what he saw. "Shut the fuck up, Sam."

"He's Cas, Dean."

"He's a hunt. He's a threat. He's a _monster_."

Sam's large, warm hand settled over his shoulder. "Are you really going to tell me that you're prepared to kill the man—the angel—you fell in love with?"

Dean almost choked on his tongue. He whipped around quickly, unthinkingly, staring up at his brother with a mixture of disbelief and fear.

"God, what are you, sixteen?" Once Dean's heart calmed a little bit, he tried a smile. "Been sneaking romance novels in Bobby's books again, Samantha?" His attempted humor fell flat, even in his own ears. Angrily, he hissed, "The world isn't the making of a love story. Especially not this one."

Even as he said it, he knew Sam wasn't buying it. Hell, Dean wasn't buying it either. Because he had Lisa and Ben, and Cas… Castiel had always been on another plane of existence, sometimes even literally. He was never, ever attainable. That made Dean's poorly planned affection for the guy somewhat lonely, but safe too. That is, until now.

"Who told you?" he said finally, quietly.

"You did," Sam said, his voice equally soft. His eyes darted away. "When we were in your head. It was, um. It was very illuminating."

"Please. That's not a good enough reason." Defensively, he snapped, "So I'm supposed to be in charge of my mind twenty-four seven?"

"That's the point," Sam said patiently. "You're not in charge, not really. And, in the dream, your filters were… offline, so to speak. And you…" He licked his lips nervously before pushing forward. "You ever notice that Lawrence—your Lawrence—didn't have one stranger in it? Not one unknown person at all? No people you've just never talked to, no guy you see every day but don't know?"

Dean's mind immediately jumped to Lisa's boy toy, but, hell, wasn't that GQ asshole familiar too? Wasn't he that guy from high school who'd spent twenty hours on Dean's Impala with him when the engine fell out? Disgruntled by this, Dean growled, "What's your point?"

"You knew everyone."

Dean's eyes narrowed. "It was my mind. Of course I knew everyone."

Sam shook his head, expression pensive. "I knew everyone too—mostly, anyway. They were all… we've met them and, for some reason or another, they've stuck in our heads as important people. Maybe it's because of the hunts, maybe it's because of situations we met them in, but, you know what I think it is?" He didn't give Dean the space to answer. "I think that the reason we both remember those people in particular is because they're the people we think of when we get up in the morning. When we pry ourselves off of the floor, when we limp away from yet another impossible fight." Sam's smile was distant, but his eyes were clear. These were not new thoughts for him. "I think those people in your Lawrence are the people we think of when we try to remember why we bother doing this anymore."

Dean couldn't disagree. He knew his brother's observations were true, but he hesitated accepting them. There was a catch somewhere that he wasn't seeing yet.

Dean took his time before answering, fiddling with the change in his pocket. "It's never been about the job, Sammy," he said finally, looking up. The family business had never been about collecting trophies or bragging rights or even about validating myths. It had always, always been about saving people.

"I know. It was about Mom and Jess and you and me and…" Sam let out a low, shaky breath, but forged onward. "And everyone else we cared about.”

"Kinda hard to quit when the whole world's depending on you."

"Exactly." Sam paused and then peered at Dean closely. "And the world—your world, Lawrence. How was everyone doing?"

"Everything was fine," Dean said a tad defensively. He straightened. "Everything was perfect."

Sam's gaze was steady. "Exactly. The people we think about when we're saving the world—they were there. They were our neighbors, our friends, our family. The more we think about them, the closer they were." Gently, he pressed the point home. "Lisa and Ben were your next door neighbors."

Dean had noticed that. He noticed Ben and Lisa walking hand and hand through his front yard to the cozy yellow house right next door.

"You were in California," Dean said belligerently, wanting to poke holes in Sam's theory. "Bobby was in South Dakota."

But Sam just smiled. "You wanted me to have a separate life, the one I tried to have years ago. You also didn't want to take Bobby away from his home." His smile took on a teasing edge. "You let us stay away from you—not for long, if you remember, but you gave it a try."

"Quit mocking me."

"I'm not. You let me go, Bobby go. But who'd you keep? Who was always in reach?"

There it was—the fucking _catch_. "Stop it. That's not- that's not important."

"It's not?" Sam asked. He shot Dean a knowing look. "The more you cared about a person, the closer they were. There were a hell of a lot of people at the Winchester family reunion who were not even remotely related to us."

Sam… Sam needed to shut the hell up. Now. Five minutes ago. "Stop it, Sam."

Sam didn't, of course. "But Cas… he couldn't be a brother or an uncle or a close coworker, could he? No, you had to have him close to you, closer than anyone else-"

"Please," Dean whispered, maybe too quietly.

"It's not the worst thing in the world," Sam insisted quickly. "Being in love with someone. It's just…" He hesitated, like he was realizing the absurdity of what he was saying. Lamely, he finished, "It's just going to make everything a bit harder."

"No, really?" Dean snapped, ripping Sam's hand away. He shoved every bit of anger he had left in him into his expression. "Having to gank someone I may or not care about is _a bit harder_ than ganking someone I don't like. Thanks so much for that, Einstein."

Sam's eyes were wide. "Dean."

Dean ignored him. "I'm going out for a walk." He heard the floor squeak tellingly behind him. "You follow me and I will end you," he snapped roughly, pausing for a moment in the archway. He shot a venomous glare over his shoulder. "You and I never had this conversation. Ever."

After a moment of almost agonizing silence, Dean left the kitchen. He stalked down the hallway and towards the front door. He had better things to do than be psychoanalyzed by his little brother, he told himself, quickly moving away from Sam's dismayed expression.

He planned to head out into the desert surrounding them to think, but he came to an abrupt halt just inside the door. His hand tensed around the knob while a heated breeze curled into the house from the open door.

The space in front of him was already occupied. A man much shorter than Dean examined the tips of his shoes before looking up with a wincing expression. His hand was hovering awkwardly in the air between them, like he was just about to knock. He tucked against himself hastily, rubbing his knuckles across a threadbare shirt with a picture of the TARDIS on it.

"Chuck?" Dean said stupidly, shocked by his presence. The dude looked like hell—more than usual, even.

Chuck winced again. "Yeah, hi," he said a bit bashfully, scratching at the hair over his ear. He pressed his chapped lips together, rocking back and forth on his heels in a hopeful motion. "Busy?"

Still stunned, Dean responded automatically. "Yeah. Go away."

By now, Dean's dithering had caught the attention of other people in the house. Bobby was drifting out of the study where he'd set up camp. There was an obscure text in his hand. His frown only deepened when Chuck, seeing him around Dean's shoulder, greeted him a casual sort of wave.

He and the prophet had never met, but Bobby had endured enough of Sam and Dean's complaints to recognize Chuck immediately. Scowling, Bobby snapped his book shut, stepping closer to the door. "There best be no one on your trail, boy."

"Um, we tried our best." Chuck grinned a bit self-consciously. "Becky's really good with the anti-angel sigils?" He said it almost like an apology, Dean mused.

And then what Chuck actually said caught up with his stupid brain. "Becky?" Dean echoed.

And then someone—a woman—was stepping in his sight, away from the wall she had her back to. She was wearing a full camouflage jumpsuit as well as a heavy looking flak jacket just over it. Peeking out of the little pouches and pockets that couldn't quite close, Dean saw diner salt containers and bottles marked with a cross—presumably holy water. A large, unwieldy knife was strapped to her thigh and her cheeks were streaked with red, horizontal lines—war paint, he assumed, suddenly understanding her. These lines were almost completely hidden by large aviator sunglasses.

"Is the coast clear?" she asked, her voice deep.

And Dean… look, Dean had been having one of the worst weeks of his life, and this was taking Hell into account too. That was how bad it was. He was stressed, he was wrung out, and he was sad. And here Becky was, looking like the worst parody of him and Sam, all dressed up like a thirteen year old boy preparing for the zombie apocalypse. And Dean, after his week, after all the lies he'd been told, after all the stress he'd been through?

All he could do was tip his head back and laugh.

The problem only came when he couldn't make himself stop.


	20. Chapter 20

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Chapter Twenty

 

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Dean might have had a minor nervous breakdown when the prophet Chuck showed up unannounced on Gabriel's doorstep. Might have was the key phrase here. Sam was no expert, but he thought breakdowns included more crying and yelling, more wild emotions than this. Instead, Dean was just staring thoughtfully at yet another beer he'd pulled out of the fridge, like it contained all the secrets of the cosmos poured into its brown container.

So, yeah. _Might have_. Sam kept a close eye on him, worried, as Dean's near hysterical laughter echoed in his head like a warning.

In any case, it was good to see Chuck—even if he was pacing back and forth in Gabriel's living room. Back and forth. _Back and forth_.

Only the three of them were left in the house. Gabriel had disappeared and Becky, knowing the Winchester Gospels like the back of her hand, had bee-lined toward Bobby, asking him to look at Chuck's car. It was apparently making a lot of odd noises and neither she nor Chuck knew a wrench from a crowbar. Sam didn't know what she said to get Bobby to agree to look at it, but it must have been good.

Dean was already losing the shine off his contemplative zen. He kicked out the chair closest to him, leveling a glare at Chuck that he did not dare misinterpret. He dropped into the seat quickly. Moments later, he was bouncing his leg up and down.

"Sorry. It's just been very stressful."

"Stressful?" Dean sat on the edge of the nearest couch, the only Gabriel had been sleeping not long before. "How the hell has this been stressful to you?"

"Are you serious?" Chuck looked up at Sam. "Is he serious?"

Dean raised his hands defensively. "Hey, man. You just see our lives. We have to live it."

Chuck's expression darkened. "Exactly. I see your lives, you _idiot_." He seemed to vibrate in place for a moment before bursting out, "I see all of it, and- look, it's bad enough seeing things happen to you because… I don't have many friends and I like you people. Really, for a bunch of dicks, you're alright."

Sam shifted his weight from one foot to the other, crossing his arms over his chest. "Get to the point, Chuck."

Chuck looked sick. "I see you. Everything about you two, I know it. And I get updated frequently." When Dean stared at him blankly, Chuck turned a desperate gaze up to Sam.

Then Sam suddenly got it. "What we're doing, how we're doing it." Sam turned and shot his brother a meaningful look. " _Where we are_."

The second Dean understood, he winced and started rubbing at his temples. "You're a Winchester detector."

"Exactly," Chuck said miserably. "It's not just that I can find you, you know. Anyone who has me has you too."

"God damn it," Dean muttered softly. Then, more violently, "Son of a bitch!" He jumped up from the couch, every movement sharp. Chuck winced, folding in on himself, but Dean just retreated to the window.

Sam turned to Chuck. "If Cas ever found you-"

"Exactly," Chuck said again, bitterly this time. "If Cas finds me, good luck ever hiding from him."

Sam stared down at Chuck for a moment. "You're running to protect us," he realized. "Thank you."

"Yeah, well…" Chuck ducked his head, embarrassed.

Sam sat down on the chair closest to Chuck, pitching his voice low. "Why is Becky with you?"

Chuck rolled his eyes helplessly, looking at the ceiling. "My parents are dead. I hate my landlord, my publishers, my lawyers." He paused. His expression lightened, tearing years off his face. He looked at Sam. "But I like Becky." The faint smile disappeared into something desperate and sad. "And he _knows_ it."

"I'm _so_ sorry," Sam said softly.

"It's kinda like trying to outrun the inevitable." Chuck shot him a half-smile before his expression became resigned. "Once Cas turns his full attention to finding me, well… I'll be found. No matter how hard or fast we run." He looked at Dean for a moment before shifting his gaze back to Sam. He nodded several times. "But we'll run. As long as we're allowed, we'll run." Then Chuck was looking at the doorway between the living room and the hallway. "We'll try and buy you guys some time."

A voice rose from the hallway. Sam snapped his head toward the noise. "Time for what?" It was Gabriel.

Chuck licked his lips, straightening in his seat. "Time to stop Cas," he said, his voice strained. There was a pause where no one said anything. Dean turned around, glancing at Gabriel once before purposefully avoiding Sam and Chuck's gaze. "That is what you're going to do, right?"

"You've seen something?" Dean asked finally, his voice rough. His eyes were focused somewhere beyond Chuck's left shoulder.

"Bits and pieces so far. Not the actual, um, dragon slaying, as it were." Chuck quit twitching all of a sudden. His expression smoothed out, turning into an unreadable mask as he looked at the angel in the doorway. "You're not going to like what happens to you, Gabriel."

Gabriel smirked. "I can handle it."

"You'll endure, alright," Chuck corrected. "That's what you do. But you expected some unpleasantness when you started all this, didn't you?"

Gabriel was staring at Chuck with equal intensity. "What do you know?"

"I know you're a dick and, really? Third time's not the charm." Gabriel flinched. "You'd be better off if you were more straight-forward about these things, Gabriel. That's _your_ lesson in this. And who better than the students to teach the teacher?" Chuck tilted his head to the side, his voice whisper-soft. "You have just as much pride as Lucifer, but none of his understanding of humanity."

"Chuck?" Dean approached him cautiously, eyes on Gabriel. "Should we be banishing his ass?"

Chuck blinked. All the intensity seemed to flee him then, and he was left itching his beard and frowning at the ceiling. "No. He's loyal to you and Sam, more than you know. Well, more to Sam than you, but that's neither here nor there." Sam choked on air, startled. Dean looked blank for a long moment before abruptly paling, like he'd just had an unhappy epiphany and heads were about to roll. Gabriel just smirked.

Chuck ended the ensuing silence by flapping his hand awkwardly. "It's irrelevant to what's going on now. Don't worry about it."

Dean's expression only darkened. Sam winced. He was _not_ looking forward to that conversation.

 

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Dean gave Sam about three hours reprieve before he pounced on his overly large ass. There were some things in their lives that they just didn't need to talk about. While Sam's sex life was usually one of these, this particular situation required Dean's attention.

Sam had just stepped outside for some air. While the house was comfortable enough for the needs of two Winchesters, an angel, and a hunter, everything started feeling a little too tight and claustrophobic with the addition of a prophet and a fan girl.

Dean gave him about two minutes before he followed his brother out. He found Sam out in about in the sand in front of the house, frowning at a particularly raggedy looking bush. There was a nip in the air that almost made Dean miss the raging heat of the afternoon.

"Dude," Dean said. Sam turned around, frowning at him. Dean made a helpless, frustrated gesture, and then blurted out, "What happened to no sex before marriage?"

Sam made a noise of dismay. "Since when- you know what? _No_." He scowled. "I am _not_ talking about this with you."

"But... why? Why'd you..." Dean trailed off, making a face. He made a vague hand gesture between Sam and the house—between Sam and the freaking _douche_ that certainly was within.

Sam shifted uncomfortably. A moment passed by without his response. "I don't know!" He threw up his shoulders, looking harassed. "Why does anyone do anything these days?"

After a moment of considering this, Dean shrugged, rocking back on his heels. In another situation, in another time, this would have been as funny as shit. Dean would be getting a kick out of this. "You know me, Sam. You want to... _do anything_ with someone, I'm supportive. I'll be your goddamn cheerleader, if you want. Your condom dealer, your wing man." Sam blanched, actually staggering back a step.

Okay, so maybe this was still a little fun. Dean sobered. "But, dude," he said quietly. "Angels?"

Sam stared at him, eyes wide. Then, hesitatingly, he said, "He's not Castiel, Dean."

Dean waited too long to answer. "I know that." He shrugged and tried to smile. "It's just... it's not right. You shouldn't do it."

Sam's eyebrows pressed together slightly. "Look at you, making value judgments." Despite the implied criticism, Sam's tone was mild.

"Hey, bite me." Dean ducked his head for a moment before looking up. "Just looking out for my brother." And he defied Sam to tell him otherwise.

Sam took a half-step toward him. "Do you…. Do you want to…"

Dean sighed. "Spit it out, Sam."

"Do you want to talk about that?"

Dean stared at him blankly before forcing another smile. "There's nothing to talk about."

"Dude." Sam shot him a bland look. "I've been inside your head. Don't tell me there's nothing to talk about."

"I can't control what I think about." Then, desperately, underhandedly, he threw out, "I'm sorry about flinging Jess at you, okay?"

It didn't have the reaction Dean had hoped for, the reaction he might have gotten at the beginning, when they both started this—the white-hot anger, the drowning grief. None of that was there. Dean knew he should be happy about this. Somewhere along the way, Sam had made peace with what happened to her all those years ago.

Sam's gaze was unwavering. "This is so not about Jess."

Dean gawked at him for a moment before snorting and turning away. "Do we really need to have round two of this conversation?" he asked the night air, miffed.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Sam shoving his hands in his pockets. "Do you need it?"

"No. It's just…" Dean could lie. He wanted to lie—and maybe he should have. But he just didn't have the energy to do it anymore. He didn't have the stamina to keep pretending that everything was okay, that Cas going Dark Side hadn't really very nearly destroyed him. The worst part of it wasn't even Castiel's sudden god complex—that, Dean could almost get. No, the worst part of it was knowing that Cas knew how he felt about this—that he knew and, instead of stopping or trying to hide it some more or doing it on the other side of the planet, he'd taken Dean prisoner with the intent of _making_ Dean change his mind.

He didn't even try to persuade Dean rationally, did he? No pie charts or power-points, no. He just stuck Dean in his own head like he was a misbehaving teenager or a dog that needed to be crated. He scrambled Dean up inside and then settled down, preparing to wait Dean out, if he had to—because nothing Dean thought mattered to a freaking _god._

Nothing was ever equal between them. It never could be. Dean was human and Castiel was something else entirely, a being with centuries upon centuries of life to lean back on. But that had been the first time he felt so inferior, so much like a lesser being—a mud monkey, to borrow a phrase.

He had to wonder why Cas even bothered.

Dean sighed, watching as his breath curled slightly into fog. He glanced at Sam for a moment—Sam with his worried eyes and rounded shoulders, still there and waiting—and then started to speak. "Nothing could have happened between us. He's an angel, and I'm… not. So maybe sometimes I imagined what it would have been like if we met and everything was… normal, you know? No supernatural crap, no angel and demon cage match smack down, just… life." Smiling faintly, Dean shrugged. "And if I met Cas on the side of the road or in a bar or in a store… well, Hell. I'd probably write off as a weirdo, because, seriously, the dude's weird." Feeling oddly nervous—though, really, who was Sam to judge?—Dean licked his lips before continuing. "But what if I didn't? What if we met twice? What if we became friends? What if…"

This was getting to be just a bit too pathetic. Dean stopped, shaking his head. He faced Sam full on. There was something he needed to get across to Sam now. As much of a badass hunter Sam was turning out to be, he was still too damn sympathetic about these things. Dean didn't need Sam hesitating when the shit hit the fan. Sam didn't need it either.

So Dean fixed his brother with a sharp look. His voice was hard when he spoke again. "Anyway, all that's unimportant, and you know why? That shit, that's not our life. _This_ is our life. Every… pain filled, blood soaked minute of it, and now Cas… the Cas we know is gone, forever. And we just gotta deal."

"That's it?" Sam's voice was low and gravelly. "We're just… we're not even gonna try to get him back?"

"There's nothing to get back, Sam. He's…" Dean nearly choked on the lie.

He wanted so much to pretend that this god version of Cas was some kind of perverted, alien thing, but he knew Castiel too well. He could see how this would rise naturally from the angel he'd been from the beginning and the man he'd almost become by the end.

"He's not Cas anymore. He's… something else now," Dean heard himself say. "He's something we need to hunt and you need to keep that in your head, Sam. He's a monster, and we've got to bring him down."


	21. Chapter 21

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Chapter Twenty-One

 

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After that crapshoot of a conversation with his brother, they'd both gone inside. Sam busied himself with handling everyone's sleeping arrangements, making sure everyone was settled and comfortable.

Dean couldn't help but notice that Sam avoided his gaze the entire time.

It wasn't long until the whole house was sleeping—or most of it, anyway. Dean couldn't lay down, couldn't even think about sleeping. He'd had to periodically in the last few days, but he always woke up suddenly and in a cold sweat.

He didn't want to wake up in a dream again. Was it three times now...? Anyway, that was enough.

There was someone in the kitchen.

Dean sat up on the couch. He'd given up his room on the second floor for Chuck and Becky—give the couple a bed, he thought, which led to other thoughts—bad thoughts. The only other people in the house who had a bed was Sam—and Gabriel, if angels slept at all. Dean scowled. _Couples_.

Dean swung his legs off the couch and got up to see who was in the kitchen.

The smell of instant coffee curled in the air. Chuck was upending a bottle of whiskey into the mug in front of him, determinedly shaking out the last few drops as well. Just as he tossed the bottle into the sink and started to lift the mug to his mouth, Dean let his foot fall a little harder. Chuck flinched, nearly dropping his drink.

Dean grinned a little bit, sniffing dramatically. "Get some coffee in your whiskey, or whiskey in your coffee?" Dean's smile faded when Chuck avoided his eyes. "You see something?"

Chuck licked his lips. "I… yes."

"Well?" Dean walked over to the counter nearest to Chuck, and then turned around, sitting on top of it. "Share with the rest of the class."

Chuck hunched over his coffee. "I don't think I should." He looked up, his eyes wide. He looked upset—near tears, even. "Oh, Dean. I'm so sorry. What you'll have to do, it's just… I'm so, so sorry."

"Hey, now. You can't just say something like that and not tell me anything." Dean's breath hitched in his chest. He gripped the edge of the counter. "It's about Cas, isn't it?" More gently, he said. "Do I even get a hint?"

"Hint?" Chuck perked up a bit. "Hint. I can do hints." He bit his lip, his face screwing up in thought. After a moment, he brightened. "It's everything you've ever fought for. That's how you're going to stop Cas."

Dean frowned at him. "What, people's lives? Mine, Sammy's? Choice, free will, the right not to be a freaking _puppet_?" Chuck just shrugged at him. Dean sighed, pushing himself off of the counter. "You're crap at hints, Chuck."

"Sorry." Ceramic clicked on granite as Chuck carefully set his mug down. "Maybe you should think about it in terms of old gods verses new gods. Or, at the very least, the difference between the actual God and Cas."

"I'm not seeing any difference," Dean muttered, yanking open the fridge door. "Too much power, not enough heart."

"Dean." He looked over reluctantly. Chuck hesitated, and then splayed his hands over his own chest. "Look, I get that… God's not necessarily a sympathetic character. I get it, really. But He's better than the alternative. Better than Cas. Look, you have to think about all the things that the real God lets you have. The word no and... and off switches. Left turns as well as right." Chuck seemed to be warming up on the subject, making large, expansive gestures with his hands. "He plants a huge, honking tree in the middle of Paradise and tells the monkeys not to climb on it. _He makes the angels ask for permission_. He gives humans free will, choice, to do whatever the hell they want, for better or for worse. _Castiel_ , on the other hand…"

"It's not all him," Dean said finally, desperately, because Dean can't lie about Cas forever. "The souls-"

"It's enough of him," Chuck countered fiercely. "Look, because God loves you, He lets you be a blasphemous, faithless prick all you want. He doesn't even smite you for it. That's how much He cares." Chuck paused. Quieter, he said, "Cas loves you too, but the second you said no, he locked you up. He would have left you there too." He shrugged. "For one third of Team Free Will, he doesn't seem very fond of it. Of free will, I mean."

Dean's jaw tightened. Remembering the fridge suddenly, he slammed the door shut. "I don't want to talk about this," he growled, walking out of there. Damn it. Why did everyone ambush him in the kitchen?

"Fair enough," Chuck called out after him, sounding incredibly meek. He seemed to have used up his confidence for the day.

Or maybe not, Dean thought, because Chuck was suddenly following him into the living room, resembled nothing more than a booze laden, heavily bearded duck. Dean ignored him and his twisting hands, choosing to toss himself on the longest couch. He closed his eyes, feigning sleep.

Chuck didn't take the hint. "Castiel will ruin the world, Dean. And you know it. As much as you don't want to talk about it, you still have to do something." There was a pause, and then Chuck was saying, "You're not going to like what you have to do."

Dean pretended to sleep for another two seconds before he snapped open his eyes, lifting his head just high enough to glare at the prophet. "Don't you ever have good news?"

Chuck seemed to think about it. When he had an idea, he looked up, his eyes shining. "A baby was born today."

"You saw it?" Dean started to sit up. If there was a kid in their future, then they were up shit creek without a paddle. There wasn't a single shred of maternal instinct in any of them, and Dean was only good with kids when those kids could feed and bathe themselves. If they had to deal with a baby again, they were _screwed_.

Chuck turned pink. "N-no, I just… statistically speaking, there was probably…" His stammering petered off into an awkward silence. "Yeah, I think I'm going to check on Becky." He paused by the doorway and then looked back at Dean, his expression solemn. "Good luck, Dean."

He left Dean there, alone with his own thoughts. Dean stared at nothing in particular for a stretch of time—five minutes, maybe ten—before falling back on the couch.

It was unlikely he'd be sleeping tonight.

 

\-----

 

Hearing a hand slide over the metal railing of the stairs, Sam backed up and padded as quietly as he could back to his own room. He snuck inside, not daring to close it, and pressed himself against the wall. He heard Chuck sigh in the hallway and let himself into his own room. Becky's voice rose, muffled and sleepy, but he couldn't make out her question—nor Chuck's response, as it turned out, as he closed the door behind him.

Once any threat of being discovered was gone, he sank against the wall, letting his muscles relax. Thoughts chased one other around and around in his head. Fear and desperation warred bitterly. He didn't know which he should give into.

"What's with the brooding?"

Sam flinched badly, slapping out his hand to turn on the light.

Gabriel was sitting on the armchair in the room, his chin propped up by a loosely curled fist. His tense posture reminded Sam of the proverbial father figure, waiting on his daughter to come home after curfew. A closer look revealed pensiveness and exhaustion. He looked like he could fall asleep like that, sitting there—which was worrying. No matter what Gabriel said, Sam was still pretty sure angels didn't sleep.

After a moment, drowsy gold eyes jerked in Sam's direction, holding his gaze in a vice grip. Sam knew not to comment.

Sam exhaled deeply, stepping away from the wall. "Just thinking about what Chuck said." He stepped briefly into the connected bathroom. Like all rooms in the house, it was suspiciously well supplied. He should have been grateful, he supposed, but all he could do was scowl at the perfectly folded towels and try to calculate how much grace was being drained with each fold.

He walked out of there a few moments later. Gabriel hadn't moved, but his eyelids were drooping lower and lower and his shoulders were more slumped.

He seemed to jerk himself out of whatever pseudo-sleep he'd fallen into. Sam knew without him saying that this was another thing he was expected to ignore.

Frowning, Sam sat gingerly on the edge of the bed, facing Gabriel. "Aren't you… aren't you worried? He said something's going to happen to you."

Gabriel smiled faintly. "He also said that I'll endure. Endure means not die." He made a small, dismissive gesture with the hand by his jaw. "I take my silver linings where I can get them."

Sam bit his lip, looking away. That was one way to live life. He supposed, out of anyone, a being a few millennia old would know by now how to live with himself.

But Castiel didn't.

Bothered by that thought, Sam yanked his gaze back to Gabriel. The question was slipping out before he was thinking. "Why did you take me to that future?"

Gabriel growled, suddenly frustrated, then rolled his eyes. "What is this, twenty questions?" He glared at Sam. Sam kept his face impassive. Gabriel let himself sulk a bit before he sighed, sliding lower on the chair. His voice raised, softly and plaintively, from the awkward fold of his body. "Doesn't Cas deserve to be saved too?"

Sam stayed quiet, tracing patterns on the comforter next to him. After a few minutes of mutual silence, he looked up. Gabriel almost looked asleep.

"What did Chuck mean when he said that the third time wasn't the charm?"

Gabriel's eyes opened. He sat up slowly in a reverse of his previous slide and then he ran his hands through his hair, smoothing it back in place. He leaned forward, bracing his feet wide on the ground, digging his elbows into his knees. His hands clasped together naturally.

"I'm starting to think my strategy here is flawed," Gabriel muttered, freeing one hand long enough to rub at his eye. "Which sucks—for all of us." With a somber expression, he eyed Sam and shrugged one shoulder. "It's the only plan I got." Sam started to lean forward, words in his mouth. Gabriel lifted a hand. "No. Don't ask me my strategy. I know you're curious, but it's probably not going to go anywhere." His mouth suddenly twisted and he snarled, "Your brother sucks."

Sam tried to piece that together. "So... Dean's the one who made you doubt your strategy?" Gabriel threw him a mulish look. "What did he _say_?"

A faint smile curved his mouth. "It's not what he said to _me_ , it's what he said to _you_." Whatever he saw on Sam's face then made him laugh—a breathless little chuckle. "Don't look so _pissy_ , Sam. Eavesdropping is the least of my sins." An eyebrow rose teasingly. "And yours."

Sam tried to feel something more appropriate—shame for being called out, anger for being listened in on. It was a failed attempt right from the get-go, as his mouth almost immediately pulled into a smile.

He ended up laughing, ducking his head. "Yeah. Gotta point there." When he'd wrestled his amusement down, he looked back up.

Gabriel was staring at him the same way he had when he had that brief head injury, his face pulled in such a naked look of awe. This time, though, he quickly blanked, hiding it from view. Now that Sam knew what he was looking for, though, he could see that it never really quite disappeared. It lingered in his eyes.

"I always have ulterior motives," Gabriel announced suddenly. "Contingency plans. Plans B through Z to fall back on, should Plan A go dangerously awry." He made a face, glancing away for a moment. "I never planned on you." When he looked back, his expression was pleading. "By the end of this, you might be really, really tempted to hate me. But trust me. What I do… the situation's usually FUBAR, but I… I _mean_ well."

"Gabriel." Sam slid closer to him. "What did you do? Tell me."

Gabriel looked really tempted. He frowned, twisting slightly in the seat. Then his expression slowly cleared. "Not a chance, big guy," he said tenderly. His expression was apologetic.

Sam indulged in a little burst of frustration before he sat back, nodding. He'd figure it out on his own, some day.

Gabriel smiled at him brightly for not pushing, and then he was suddenly falling forward, too quickly to ever be natural. Sam shoved himself off the bed, dropping to the floor next to him. Meanwhile, he thought about the trajectory of the fall. It looked like a hook had snagged in the back of collar and yanked him forward. If Gabriel hadn't been a goddamn archangel, Sam would have immediately assumed poltergeist.

"Oh, shit," the angel muttered, pressing his cheek against the carpet for a moment. A second later, light was dancing under his skin. Gold Enochian letters were flickering in and out of sight. The light settled back into nothingness, leaving only the normal hue of his skin.

"What the hell?" Sam said, rubbing at his watering eyes. "Are you _manifesting_?"

"Worse," Gabriel hissed, pulling himself up to his knees. " _Don't touch me._ " Sam snatched back his hands, raising them defensively. He clenched his eyes shut when Gabriel started glowing again. "He isn't forcing me to manifest, he's forcing me to _appear_. Somewhere. At his choosing." Sam opened his eyes cautiously when the red behind his eyelids died down. Gabriel had a rueful look on his face. "You touch me, you might just have to come with me." He ghosted a curled hand along the outside of Sam's face, never once making contact. He looked like he was trying to memorize what Sam looked like.

Then it all clicked. "Wait, _Castiel_?"

Gabriel smiled bitterly, letting his hand fall. "My little token did not go unnoticed," he said vaguely. He pushed himself to his feet. Sam warily stood with him. The angel looked distracted. "He has some of my grace now. That's... that's really bad." His gaze turned to Sam and he looked urgent all over again. "Leave."

"What?"

"Leave," he repeated. White flashed again under his vessel. Before Sam managed to close his eyes, he caught a glimpse of Gabriel's expression—thin lipped, tight forehead, clenched eyes. He was in _pain_. "Every one of you. And... everyone go separate ways."

"But... _Gabriel_ -"

" _Go_!" His voice rang with ancient authority. It sounded deep and layered and like nothing Sam had ever heard before. Sam wondered if this was what his real voice would sound like if Sam could hear it, if Sam's brain wouldn't melt at a single note of its resonance.

When he spoke again, it was the voice Sam was used to. "It's the only way you'll all avoid being caught."


	22. Chapter 22

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Chapter Twenty-Two

 

\-----

 

They were running again, damn it. No rest for the wicked. Dean looked up, seeing the ashen, withdrawn face of his brother over the hood of a stolen car before his little brother hurried up the metal stairs to the car dealer's office and disappeared from sight.

Dean's jaw tightened, slamming the car door shut a little harder than he meant to. Running didn't put that look on Sam's face, oh no. It didn't take a genius to figure out that something was wrong with Gabriel—not when people a state over could see that holy light from his windows. Dean had only seen that from a dead angel, but woe to the one who suggested that to Sam—which was _Dean_ , of course.

They hadn't had a real, full on Winchester brawl in a while now. For a second, Sam looked like he was about to start one.

Dean gave Bobby a thumbs up from across the parking lot. They were raiding a used car dealership a town over. It went against all the rules Dean ever learned, stealing so many cars from one place, but they didn't have much of a choice.

Dean patted the top of a quietly rumbling car, pining for the Impala—who knew where the hell she was.

Dean stepped on the hood of another car, straining to see over the dealership's fences. The cops would show up any time now, they had to hurry the hell up.

Hopping off lightly, he barked out their time limit—mostly just to hear Chuck mutter 'oh God, oh God' under his breath. He should have been the one to stay with his own car, Dean thought, not for the first time. He wasn't the only one cursing Chuck's chivalry at the moment. Becky would have been a natural at this.

Sam walked out of the manager's building, shrugging. He braced his shotgun—still packed with rock salt—against his shoulder and dropped down the flight of stairs.

Chuck met him at the base of the stairs, wringing his hands worriedly. "Did you tell him that we're very, very sorry, and not to call the police?"

Sam made a face, meeting Dean's eyes over Chuck's head. "Guy's got an AK-47. I'm not telling him _anything_."

As if prompted by this announcement, muffled, angry shouting suddenly came from the inside. Sam itched his head with the barrel of his gun.

Dean grabbed the door of the nearest hotwired car and reached for Chuck's elbow. "Alright, into the car, Chuck."

"Really?" Chuck whined. "It's so _wrong_."

Dean put his hand on Chuck's head and shoved him into it. "Yeah, thou shalt not steal is awesome right up until you're starving or in trouble." Dean slammed the door behind him, jerking his head to the side.

Frowning, Sam followed him as the noise of a revving car sounded behind them. Tires squealed against broken and cracked asphalt. Jesus Christ, Chuck drove like a twelve year old.

Dean and Sam stopped by the truck Bobby had hotwired. Dean eyed Sam as Bobby stepped out of the cab. Meanwhile, Dean grouched quietly in the privacy of his mind. Whatever Sam said, he had the feeling he wasn't the only sap of a Winchester to feel more than a little fond of an angel.

But Sam had to go a step further, didn't he? Nabbing an archangel like that—they had to have advanced degrees in douchery compared to the average angel, and the average angel was pretty damn douchey.

Then Bobby was in front of them. He looked drained and worried. Dean shot a look at Sam, noticing Sam had nearly the exactly same expression. Chuck had freaked out the entire way there and Becky, Dean remembered, had cried noisily before giving everyone a big hug.

Dean's jaw tightened. Everyone was scared and suffering. Three guesses why. Three guesses whose fault it was.

Bobby's arm hung off the car door. "Let's meet up in Denver in a week."

"Sure," Dean lied, nodding briskly. He wasn't going to Denver.

On his other side, Sam was staring at him. Dean ignored his scrutiny, forcing all of his focus on maintaining a bland expression.

Shit, he was bad. Bobby was staring at him too now, his eyebrows needling together. "We'll take different roads and different highways," he said slowly. "And, for Christ's sake, don't let people see your faces."

"Alrighty, then," Dean said, clapping Bobby's shoulder twice. He immediately turned around, heading for car he worked on. Sam was right on his heels.

"A week, Dean."

"I know."

Sam looked suspicious. "I'll call you later tonight," he threatened.

Dean smiled benignly. "You have my number."

They all drove off. Dean went last. When the tail end of Sam's car disappeared around the corner, he fished out his cell phone and tossed it in the trash. Then, the next thing he did was go the direction opposite of what everyone previously agreed to take, putting distance between him and Sam.

He took an exit into the next biggest city on the highway.

It didn't take him long to find a Cas worshiper in the college town. After all, he was the idiot in the trench coat.

 

\-----

 

If these were the type of people Castiel was mobilizing, then Dean was really concerned about the future of his religion.

Dean was standing in the middle of a dorm room, feeling vaguely itchy. A wide eyed girl in hemp stared up at him from where she sat in some uncomfortable contortion on the floor. Her roommate was splashed out over one of the beds, her bangles clicking every time her hanging arm swayed. The only hint of her wakefulness was a flash of blue through drowsy eyelids.

The idiot Dean found in town was standing in the doorway behind Dean, beaming like... well, an idiot. Another guy stood behind him, hanging off the wall. He looked like the cagey sort of guy everyone pegged as the resident troublemaker.

With these prime examples of the _faithful_ , damn straight Dean felt uneasy.

Eyeing them all suspiciously, Dean repeated himself slowly. "I want to talk to…" Dean made a face. "Your God." When they just stared with him, he growled. "Come on, pray to him or whatever. I don't got all day."

"O-okay," Hemp Girl said. She shook out her arms slightly, closing her eyes and lifting her head to the ceiling. Slowly and with great fanfare, she lifted her arms beseechingly.

" _Awesome_ ," hissed Trench Coat Boy. Dean glanced back over his shoulder, seeing that he was bouncing on his heels.

Hemp Girl began her prayer solemnly. "Castiel, Castiel. Oh great and powerful God, oh merciful and kind deity-"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Cut to the chase."

The kid shot him the stink eye, but obligingly lowered her arms. "I found Dean Winchester," she finished rather petulantly.

"Isn't lying a sin?" Dean drawled, crossing his arms over his chest.

"A simple miscast of information is a mistake, not a sin." Everyone jerked slightly at the sound of the soft voice that came from the corner, even Dean.

The two guys in the hallway rushed in, jostling Dean as they fought for a better look. The girl on the bed nearly face-planted on the floor with her eagerness to get up. Hemp Girl herself launched to her feet, her eyes shining. Dean gladly took up the back, edging away from the group.

"My lord!"

"It is so good to see you in person!"

"You are _so_ much taller in person."

Dean winced at the chorus of voices. If he allowed himself, he would have noticed that Castiel did too.

Castiel lifted both hands. "I thank you," he said somberly, taking a moment to look each of them in the eye. "Those who have faith will always be rewarded." A pronounced frown formed over his face. He glanced at Dean for a moment before leaning toward Hemp Girl. She looked star-struck. "May I ask for a personal favor?"

A blush crashed through the heavy makeup on her face. "Anything."

"Could you-" Here, his eyes darted to the other three. "All of you leave us? Dean and I have much to discuss."

The kids paused. Then, in a flurry of motion, they departed in confusion, bowing, waving, and even kneeling in deference. It seemed like that aspect of Castiel's religion hadn't been resolved yet.

When the door closed with a click, Castiel finally turned his full attention to Dean. Dean stared back at him belligerently. He hadn't really planned this far beyond abstract ideas and now he had no idea what to do. He did have some vague understanding that he shouldn't be alone with Castiel, especially not in the real world right now, but he'd marched right up to his door, didn't he?

It was very surreal. There was a David Bowie poster right behind Castiel's head and there was a pink lava lamp to the left. The right side of the room was belligerently decorated with a Harry Potter theme and Dean thought he'd just stepped on a juice box.

This hardly felt like the horrible, climatic confrontation he'd been dreading since Castiel blew up Raphael.

But it was, so he just had to man up and _deal_ with it already.

He fired first. "It's creepy how friendly you can pretend to be."

Castiel tipped his head slightly to his chest. "I will be the God everyone needs me to be."

"Awesome. Be the God who puts those fucking souls back where they _fucking belong_."

Castiel shook his head slowly. "I can't do that. They're a part of me now." Dean made a bitter, angry noise and turned his head away. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Castiel close the space between them just a little bit. "You could have prayed yourself. I would have come for you. I have _always_ come for you."

Dean made eye contact, shooting Castiel a venomous glare. "You've violated my mind enough, don't you think?"

"Dean-"

"Which are you, huh?" Dean snapped. "Castiel or those _multitudes_?"

A blank expression warred for control over Castiel's face before curiosity seemed to take hold. "Which do you think I am?" He took one, steady step forward. "Am I Castiel? Or am I the souls?"

"I think you're Cas..." Dean admitted softly. With a harder voice, he bit out, "With a seriously bad dependence on soul power." He peered into Castiel's eyes for a moment, his gaze narrowing. "I think they'd influenced you but... you're still _you_ in there, Cas."

Castiel smiled very faintly, mockingly. "You think?"

Dean blanched at the hissed response, the hint of something _other_ underneath that mild, human range. "Maybe not." Softer, he said, "Maybe I'm just wasting my time."

Castiel shrugged. "Maybe."

Dean shifted uncomfortably, shifting away from the line of girl shoes on the floor. A wrapped lollipop on one of the desks reminded him of something—or, more specifically, someone.

"Where's Gabriel?" he demanded.

Castiel clapped a hand over the post of one of the beds. "He challenged me. I showed him the folly of such an action." He glanced up at Dean, his eyebrows rising slightly. "Gabriel was not the strongest archangel. I do not understand why he thought it was necessary to confront me directly."

Dean couldn't say anything for a moment because he was suddenly remembering his brother staring at the screen of his cell phone, looking lost as each call went to voicemail.

"You killed him?" he whispered, horrified.

Castiel angled his head to the side before shaking it. "No. I did not wish to deprive your brother of yet another lover."

Wincing, Dean closed his eyes as he remembered what Chuck said about enduring. He had to fight down nausea because, fuck, Dean had _endured_ Hell, hadn't he? He backed up a few steps, nearly tripping over a power cord.

"That's kind of you," Dean spat, not meaning a single word.

Castiel, of course, missed it. "I can be kind, Dean."

Dean snorted. "Treating human beings like puppets, evicting them from their homes, jerking them around… that's not kind, Cas."

Castiel moved forward just a little bit more. "What is necessary is rarely kind."

The dorm was a box—a cage—and, sometime in the last few minutes, Castiel had went from being on one side of the room to being quite on the other, and too much into Dean's space. It didn't take a genius to figure out that Castiel was backing him right into the corner. Dean had very little room to move now and he was feeling the tension of it. Sweat slid down on the back of his neck as he tried to remember why he thought this was a good idea in the first place.

Oh, yeah. Sam. And Bobby and Chuck and Becky and a couple billion other people on the planet, because there was no way this—Castiel's new religion—was going to turn out well.

Dean shifted his weight back to the center of his feet. He refused to lean back anymore. This put him uncomfortably close to Castiel as they stood nearly toe to toe now.

"You can feed yourself whatever bullshit you need to sleep at night but, please, keep that away from me," Dean whispered. "I don't need to hear it."

Castiel's eyes moved over his face ponderously. "You are angry. Upset." He paused, his gaze meeting Dean's. "Frightened."

Dean's hands were shaking. He wanted to hate him so freaking much, but all he could do was stare down at his former friend, his teeth slowly grinding together. "You don't know me."

"But I do." Oddly, Castiel averted his eyes. "Not as well as I would like, it seems, as I would not have predicted your choice to return to me." Castiel glanced back up at him and smiled, a small, barely there expression. "Thank you for returning, Dean."

"I wanted to see you," Dean confessed. It was too raw, too close to the truth. He hardened his heart and said more harshly, "I wanted to see if you were really as insane as the TV made you look."

Castiel flinched, turning his eyes away. "Dean."

"Cas. Seriously, Cas?" Castiel started to back up, but Dean grabbed his arm. "What the hell are you doing? What are you trying to be?" He shook the arm in his grip. "We fought together, remember? We fought against things and angels and demons that wanted to do exactly what you're doing now."

Castiel's head shot up and he glared. "I'm rebuilding the world into a better place," he snapped, yanking his arm away. Immediately, Dean felt the distance between the two of them widen impossibly even though Castiel never moved.

"This isn't a rebirth, Cas. This is an _apocalypse_ ," Dean insisted anyway, trying to find the right words. "Our world, it isn't perfect, but, damn it, it's ours. What right do you have to change that?"

Contempt—there was no other word for the look Castiel gave him now. "Power gives me the right," he rumbled ominously.

Dean flinched, staring at Castiel in disbelief for a few quiet moments. When no retraction came, he slowly shook his head. "Thanks for the heads up, _Raphael_." Disappointed, Dean pushed past Castiel. "I'll be going now."

A hand shot out, dragging him back. "No, you won't."

Fingers tightened too hard on Dean's arm, leaving bright spots of pain as well as dragging him down a few inches. Dean found himself practically nose to nose with Castiel and froze that way. Castiel's shaky, unneeded breath skittered over Dean's chin and neck.

" _I won't let you._ " Castiel's eyes were wide and somehow desperate for all the control he insisted he had. "I won, Dean. I won the planet. I won _you_. There is nothing you can do to stop me." His eyes fluttered several times. His grip tightened even further until Dean, crying out, fell to his knees. "I am your new God." His voice was as cold as the pain was hot. He was leaning over Dean, compensating for their different positions. "I will give you one last chance to declare your loyalty to me."

Dean gritted his teeth, squinting up at him. "Or _what_?" he said daringly.

Castiel didn't even blink. "Or I'll rebuild a new, better you."

Dean sucked in a breath as a small, selfish bit of him wondered how much Castiel had really liked him in the end if it was really so easy for him to imagine Dean 2.0, the puppet version.

And then it clicked—the horrible position he'd been forced into, Chuck's disjointed hints, Castiel's attempt at conversion. Even Hemp Girl and Trench Coat Boy—the whole hunt for followers in general—made sense in that blinding flash of insight.

It was all about consent in the end, wasn't it? Consent was power. Consent was _control_. Even Michael and Lucifer were stumped in the end by a lack of it.

For all his assumptions of godliness, Castiel was under the same limitations. Humans were built to exercise free will. Angels were built to _accept_ it.

Dean sat back on his heels—as much as he could, anyway. "I wonder what your meat suit thinks of this."

Castiel blinked. The punishing grip on Dean's arm loosened a bit. "His family will be protected."

"I don't buy that," Dean hissed. The grip loosened even further. "I don't buy that Jimmy Novak would want your kind of protection. That kind of protection? That's not free will, that's slavery."

Castiel gazed at him pensively, his grip barely more than the brush of fingertips now. He was _listening_. God, since when had the opposite become so... normal?

"It is a better life," Castiel said softly.

Cautiously, Dean stood, horribly relieved when Castiel didn't yank him back down. "It's a fake life. I'd prefer real over fake, anytime." Castiel's hand fell off of Dean's arm entirely. “I can't imagine the guy's much different.”

Dean exhaled slowly, his feet eating up the last bit of space left in the room. There was a wall at his back and a pseudo-god at his front—a former _friend_ , too. Preemptive guilt made him feel sick. Imaginative grief had his mind playing out the probable scenario.

He so knew what was going to happen here. Could he really... could he really do that to Cas?

"Go ahead," Dean goaded, forcing his tone to remain casual. "Ask him. Ask him if he still consents."

"You are wrong," Castiel said softly. More quietly, he muttered, "You are wrong about many things."

He really wanted to be wrong about this too—desperately. But he also wanted to be right because... hell. He just wanted it all to end.

"Not about this," Dean insisted tiredly. "Ask him. Ask him if you're so sure of yourself, _God_." He hesitated, and then said, "If I'm wrong, I pledge my obedience, my allegiance to you, and only you." And then, because he couldn't quite help himself, he said with a bitter twist of his lips, "Till death do us part."

Frowning, Castiel closed his eyes and asked.

Time ticked by, feeling like an eternity. In reality, only a moment passed.

Castiel's eyes shot open. "No," he breathed. He staggered back, away from Dean. His arms flapped out desperately, looking for something to hold, something to _grab_.

"You asked," Dean muttered.

Castiel—the vessel—lit up in the brightest light. A high pitched noise started issuing from his skin, his very pores, and something very subtle shifted dangerously around him.

Castiel clearly didn't get the answer he expected—and, without consent, he couldn't stay in Jimmy's body. The light show was Castiel being compelled to _leave_.

But the souls were there too and they didn't seem willing to take their claws out of the angel who dared to consume them.

Caught between the pulsating anger of Purgatory beasts and one angel's compulsion to leave, Jimmy was the one who suffered the most immediate consequences.

The human fell to his knees. Frothing light bubbled under pale skin. Wide, frightened blue eyes met Dean's. Jimmy tried to say something, but his body was not entirely his own.

Dean's face was wet. "I'm so sorry, Jimmy," he choked out.

And then his world ended in a flash of blinding white.


	23. Chapter 23

\-----

 

Chapter Twenty-Three

 

\-----

 

In the end, Sam was a lot of things—hunter, brother, killer, _abomination_. But, whatever his faults or bad deeds, he wasn't stupid, not where it counted. Not when it had to do with Dean.

They may have parted ways, they may have made plans, but Sam knew his brother. He knew his brother _way_ too damn well, so he couldn't have not noticed that look on Dean's face before he left—that look of extreme desolation and resignation.

Last time Dean'd given up so completely, they'd almost lost him to Zachariah and Michael. Sam wasn't doing that again. He _wasn't_.

But, seriously, how was he supposed to stop Dean this time? The bastard made Sam leave before he did, which made following him difficult. Sam knew better than anyone that, if Dean wanted to disappear? He'd damn well disappear, and there was no one left alive who could follow his tracks if he was motivated.

That is, except for an angel with a vial of his blood and a healthy amount of practice with pagan magic. Not that Gabriel would be in any shape to do them good, Sam realized gloomily. Bad thoughts laid in that direction, thanks to Castiel.

Pulling his eyes away from the road for a moment, Sam checked the time on his cell phone. He paused, feeling the weight of it in his hand. Despite himself, he smiled, remembering Gabriel's cryptic texts within Dean's dream.

Gabriel was not one to be straightforward about things, and those texts were Exhibit A. 'Loki' may have fed him information, but he never bothered putting it in context or within a helpful explanation. In fact, Sam had a sneaking suspicion that the only reason he'd learned so much so quickly from Gabriel was because the angel was suffering an acute form of _impatience_.

In the real world, he could find them, he could break the enchantments that kept them sleeping, but he could never pull them out of the dream. No, they had to decide to do it themselves, one way or another. Only Bobby had been spared the somewhat harrowing decision of suicide to escape the dream, and Sam thought he knew why.

Gabriel always did like them better when they went off and did their own thing—plucky, he'd said once. Sam could think of no other reason why he'd defy years and years hiding and avoiding responsibility. For better or worse, the guy _liked_ them.

For worse now, maybe, but Chuck said he would _endure_. Sam had to take heart in that.

Not expecting an answer anytime soon, Sam shot a quick text on his phone to a new contact—Loki.

 _I think Dean is handing himself over to Castiel._

He tossed his phone to the seat, annoyed at himself for some reason. At the very least, Gabriel deserved to stay updated, right? Of course, that was assuming he still had a cell phone.

Unsettled by that thought, Sam made himself focus on the road.

An hour went by. Scenery flew past the car without him really registering it, save for a sign here or there. Time passed in a long stretch of songs blurring into one another in such a way that Sam could have never told anyone what he'd heard. That was the sort of numbness he was operating in.

Then, suddenly, Sam was yanked from the car, like a bungee string had attached itself to his spine and was sending him flying back. He jerked his arms in front of himself protectively, only to realize that he hadn't hit another car or an unfortunate tree, but rather he'd been pulled through space by a rather uncaring hand—was still being pulled, actually, which was an unreal experience.

He spared a second to think about the car, which was probably continuing to drive forward on that highway with no driver, and then he was skidding backward on his knees. Dust kicked up all around him, clogging the air and burning his eyes.

On all fours, he coughed hoarsely, squinting at his surroundings.

His new setting was familiar in a way few things were these days. He was crouching in front of Bobby's house in Sioux Falls. He seemed alone. And then he blinked and Bobby himself was right beside him, hands and knees in the dirt and looking as sick as Sam felt.

Bobby indulged himself in a moment of wide eyed confusion before clearing his throat. "That's a no to Denver then, huh?" He pushed himself to his feet slowly, offering Sam a hand up.

"Who brought us here?" Sam said once he regained his footing. He paused to brush the dirt from his jeans before he muttered, "Couldn't have been Castiel."

"Suspect we woulda heard a hearty 'mwuahaha', had it been him," Bobby said sourly, whipping off his hat to rub at his sweaty forehead.

"Cas isn't like that," Sam protested. At Bobby's incredulous stare, he hurried and said, "He's just… he wanted…"

How was he supposed to explain Castiel? The angel wanted a better world—had fought and died for it. He still fought for it, but… his motivations had taken a left turn somewhere. Maybe the silence from God played a role. Maybe it was the all too human influence instead. But something happened and Cas… Cas was still Cas, under everything.

At least, that was what Sam thought.

Bobby cleared his throat, his eyes scanning what he could see of his property. "Where's Dean?" Sam looked away too quickly. Bobby's face fell. "Oh, that stupid… _boy_."

Sam nodded, brushing the dust off his jeans again. Yes, very, very stupid.

Before they could move into the house, the wind picked up. With a solid thud, Gabriel landed hard in the middle of Singer's Salvage, looking ruffled and slightly wild. His short coat flared out slightly around his waist. More dust was kicked up suddenly, like something huge and invisible had landed next to him.

Whatever it was, it landed on one of Bobby's broken down cars too, leaving a huge, long indent in the metal hood. Gabriel glanced back at the noise, his exhausted face pulling briefly into an expression of surprise.

It was his least graceful landing yet, and Gabriel had once landed in their shower and split his forehead open. Sam had never seen an angel who was quite so clumsy, and Gabriel was allegedly supposed to be one of the best of the best.

It needed exploration or, at the very least, _explanation_ , but Sam found himself very quickly distracted from the topic.

Gabriel had Dean.

Sam took a sharp, hesitating step in Dean's direction, relief and fear warring in his chest, but he stopped before he took any more. There was a dead, hollow look on Dean's face, that look Sam knew too well after too many funerals. Despite the many funerals, though, he'd never seen his brother look quite so devastated, and he'd sure as hell never before seen his brother sink to the ground in his grief, like his legs couldn't support him anymore.

He looked exactly like Sam thought he would look after John died.

Because of this, Sam wasn't surprised when Gabriel told him Castiel's vessel had gone nuclear, and that Dean had been the one to press the big, shiny red button.

Sam closed his eyes for a moment, mourning Jimmy. Then he opened them, saying, "Oh, Dean."

Dean shot him a look of pure hatred. "Shut the hell up, Sam," he snarled. Then his face crumpled. His hands rose immediately to cover it. "Oh God."

Sam went to him. Gabriel stepped into his path, eyes apologetic but firm. "We should get inside," he said pointedly. "All of us." He turned his gaze to Bobby.

Bobby stared at him for a moment before sighing heavily. "Well. I'll go and break the sigils then." He shot a dark glare at Gabriel as he walked to his door. "Reign in your wings before you hurt somebody."

Gabriel had the good grace to look sheepish.

 

\-----

 

Dean was drinking. No one stopped him even though it was highly unusual behavior—not the _drinking_ , exactly. Most hunters drank to some extent—this was fact—and the Winchesters were no different.

But there was a huge difference in their normal behavior—a beer or two to wind down—and Dean's current, self-destructive consumption. Sam didn't know whether to worry about alcohol poisoning or drowning. Either were likely at this point.

Still, no one stopped him, but it wasn't like no one tried either.

Well meaning, but so very stupid in his approach, Sam had tried to cut Dean off after the second six pack. Dean didn't put up much of a fight, so, emboldened, Sam had tried to get him to talk a bit—again, stupid.

"Are you okay?" he'd started off by asking, sitting on the hood next to Dean. His brother had taken to wandering around the salvage yard. If anyone heard the periodic smash of metal against more metal or the tinkling cry of shattering glass, well, they didn't comment.

At the time, the Dean next to him seemed drained and not very likely to resort to violence. Still, though, Sam was shocked at his flat delivery of a response.

"I killed my best friend," he had said calmly. This had shocked Sam, who'd somehow thought that Castiel escaped and was still at large.

Seeing his expression, Dean had chuckled roughly and then saluted Sam with his whiskey bottle. "Oh, yes I did. Ripped up his hold on Jimmy, then let the souls rip up him instead. Consent's a funny thing, you know. If an angel asks permission to use their grace through a human's body, and that human says no? Fucking angel has to respect it. _Respect_." He listed to the side slightly, his shoulder bumping into Sam's.

Still shocked, Sam had tried to assuage Dean's grief. "You didn't know," he'd said softly. Hell, Sam didn't know either, and he'd been the only one to realize his destiny as a vessel. Lucifer must have known because he'd been oh so very careful not to ask permission again.

At this statement, Dean had leaned into him in a halting, swaying motion, palming Sam's collar distractedly. "I did know, Sammy. I knew what I was doing when I asked him. And I did it intentionally." Dean's expression hardened, as did his grip on Sam's shirt. "I did it because I knew he loved me too much to stay away. And I did it all in the middle of a huge fucking city, in a goddamn dormitory with _kids_ all around." Then, viciously, he hissed, "No, Sam. I'm not okay."

Sam was shoved away then and, shaking and bothered, he'd quickly retreated.

He'd steered clear of Dean after that, desperate to help his brother, but not knowing what he could say that wouldn't break Dean entirely. It would be so, so easy.

Sam watched a lot of television in those two days of silence. The news went on and on about the 'freak gas explosion' in the middle of some college in Kansas. Soon enough, though, the accident was fighting for top coverage with an anomalous cloud formation that had formed in Colorado and shot out in all directions.

Sam sat down. Regardless of normal broadcasting schedules, nearly all of the local channels had the news on. Sam clicked through them quickly.

A frowning, blond haired man was reading from his notes. "Current reports put as many as fifty thousand missing and ten thousand confirmed dead-"

 _Click._

A dark eyed woman was in mid-sentence. "-Strange anomaly observed forty-eight hours ago over Colorado-" she was saying.

 _Click._

It was a parade of solemn faced officials offering everything from electrical clouds to dirt to radioactive materials as an explanation for the writhing, purple and black mass that flew by on the shaky camera footage.

The wood behind Sam's chair squawked warningly. Dazed, Sam looked up, realizing that he had company. Everyone else was in the room, propping themselves up or leaning on something to watch the news. Only Gabriel ever looked comfortable, but Sam didn't know how much of that was real and how much of it was just pure bravado.

A popular image of the cloud formation appeared on the screen again. From the angle it was shot at, you could almost see individual, elongated masses making up the bulk of the thing.

"The souls from Purgatory," Bobby hypothesized, giving sound to what Sam didn't want to say. "All of them."

"They ripped Jimmy apart," Dean shared glumly, rolling a bottle between his hands. "Without Cas, he couldn't contain them. Without consent, without control, they swarmed Cas and ate his light right the hell up."

Out of the corner of Sam's eye, he saw that Gabriel had flinched badly. Whatever casualness he'd shown had surely been a lie, because then he was covering his face with his hands.

"You did what you had to do, son," Bobby said comfortingly, reaching across the space between them to grasp Dean's shoulder. Dean looked up, his expression open for the first time in days.

It was then that Sam dared to hope that Dean would recover from this one day.

It was also then that Gabriel shot to his feet, snapping out, "No, if you did _what you had to do_ , we wouldn't _be_ in this situation, would we?"

Besides the mumbling from the television, the room went very silent. All eyes were on Gabriel.

Whatever he saw on their faces made him sigh loudly and roll his eyes. "You're so _slow_." Then he lifted his hand and snapped his fingers.


	24. Chapter 24

\-----

 

Chapter Twenty-Four

 

\-----

 

Sam reflexively shut his eyes. When he opened them again, he saw that Dean was staring at his empty hand with a look of profound loss. He staggered to the left, knocking over a chair. Then he looked up. His expression cleared and then just as rapidly darkened.

"Dude, I'm _sober_."

"I think we have bigger problems that that," Sam said, nodding towards the long, but narrow stretch of the room.

Stools were knocked into each other as well as completely over. Blood dried in bubbles on the floor, but there were no bodies. In the background, a jukebox played, but the song was stuck, repeating over and over after a few words. The area was swamped in darkness, but Sam knew that, had they turned on the lights, the dim bulbs would not have helped much.

This was not a new setting for them.

Dean was realizing it too. "The diner? Ervin's?" His face scrunched up in confusion. "Why are we here?"

Sam was already starting to get a clue and he wasn't liking what he was coming up with. He found himself grasping along the line of the counter until he was behind it, staring at a clock hanging in the back kitchen. Dean continued to clatter around noisily in the front—more idle destruction than intent exploration.

"When?" Sam whispered, staring hopelessly at the clock. The hands ticked along the generic numbers unhelpfully, not giving Sam the information they needed.

"What?" Dean called out, sounding distracted.

Sam pivoted sharply and walked back in the front room. " _When_ are we?" he snapped, passing Dean. Remembering himself suddenly, he stopped and dropped his hand to his pocket, feeling the edge of his cell phone.

Then the diner door opened and in came a familiar figure.

"Sam, Dean," Bobby grouched, looking unhappy. He approached where they stood in the middle of the diner, hissing quietly, "You two idjits are louder than a pack of raccoons in a silver shop. Do you _want_ the cops to pin all these murders on ya?"

"Oh, shit," Dean said, eyes wide. He stared at Bobby. "I remember this conversation." He turned sharply to Sam. "Oh, _shit_."

"Now you know how I feel," Sam grumbled. He shot Bobby a tired smile, trying to ease his visible confusion. "When is it, Bobby?"

"When?" Bobby's eyebrows pressed together.

Dean smiled bitterly. "We're a little... _temporally_ displaced." He noticed Sam was staring at him. "What? I read."

"You killed Eve half a day ago," Bobby said faintly. He gestured to the diner. "We're here, looking to see if she left anything behind- what do you mean, _temporally displaced_?"

Dean looked uncomfortable. "You don't remember..." He made a rolling motion with his hand. "The doctor lady getting killed? Cas going Dark Side? Jimmy blowing up?"

Bobby reeled back a step, his face contorting into a grimace. "Are you drunk?"

Dean sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "God, I wish." He slumped against one of the stools, not quite sitting. "This is Gabriel's trick. You got lucky, I guess." He scowled at the ceiling, growling, "You didn't get jerked around by a _freaking douche_!"

"Boy!" Bobby snapped. "Keep it down!"

"Dean," Sam said urgently. He was pressing his hands against his head. If he was right, then was his wall still up? How could he tell?

"What?" Dean snapped."

"There's not another pair of us," Sam hissed, letting his hands drop.

Dean stared at him for a moment, then made a face. "What the hell does that mean?"

"It's not time travel," Sam said, clenching his fists. "We've time traveled before, to the past. You stood in front of Mom while you were growing in her belly." He spared a moment to look at Bobby. "Here, in this diner, there's no past Sam and Dean, there's only you and me. _This isn't time travel_."

"Then what is it?" Bobby asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

Sam bit his lip and then said, acerbically, "A time loop."

"Starting now? Here?" Dean blanched. "Why?"

"Don't you just love it?" They all turned to see Gabriel sitting at the counter at the far end of the diner. He was tucking into a huge plate of Belgian waffles covered in strawberries and cream. He lifted his head, making a motion with his free hand like he was wafting the air. "It still has that new morgue smell."

Silence met this observation. Silverware clicked against a plate. Then Bobby broke the stalemate, commenting, "Aren't you supposed to be dead?"

Gabriel chewed thoughtfully, then poked his fork in Bobby's direction. "You are not the first person to say that to me, Bobby."

"We're in a goddamn time loop?" Dean snapped, barely keeping it under a yell. "What the hell is going on?"

"That, I'd like to know," Bobby muttered, looking bewildered. He turned abruptly to Dean. "What do you mean 'that doctor lady'?"

"Not important," Dean said with a shake of his head.

"Third time is not the charm, Gabriel," Sam hissed, eyes only for him.

Gabriel's expression dimmed.

"I reiterate!" Dean snapped. "What. The. _Hell_. Is going on?"

Gabriel's gaze never wavered from Sam. "Would you like the honors, Sam?"

Sam shifted, aware that Dean and Bobby were staring at him now. "You didn't tell me. Not really."

"You're a bright guy. Fill in the gaps."

Sam dropped his eyes to his feet for a moment, trying to compile everything together. When he thought he had a vague picture, he warily looked up at his brother and Bobby. Sam shrugged. "Gabriel is trying to prevent something from happening. A bad future, I guess, one worse than the biblical apocalypse. He also wants to save Cas and..." Sam paused, focusing on Dean. "And he thinks you're the only one who can do it."

That was the last thing Dean needed to hear. "That's impossible," Dean burst out, eyes wild. "I can't- I've _tried_ -"

"You haven't even begun trying," Gabriel said flatly. He slid off of the stool, walking towards them. He opened his arms wide, smirking. "But I'm not a complete dick. I'll do you a favor and tell you which event is really the game changer here." He lifted his hands in front of him, as if mapping out a space. "Stage right, Dean, consumed by his macho man pain by an imagined betrayal. Stage left, Castiel, suffering under the weight of a righteous, but terribly flawed cause." He lifted one eyebrow, eyes flicking over to Dean. "What happened?"

Dean's face was forcibly blank. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You told him to stop," Gabriel said in a sing-songy tone. His expression clouded over. "You begged him to stop."

"So? He didn't."

"But!" Gabriel lifted a finger. "You made him doubt. A whole day, he wracked his conscience, and he did it for you." Gabriel glowered. "It was the only time he ever showed sincere doubt about this. Believe me, I've been watching." He took one step forward, his jaw flexing irritably. "If you had pressed your advantage, we wouldn't be in this problem right now."

Next to Sam, Dean was shaking with rage, and it was only a well-developed sense of self-preservation that kept him from jumping Gabriel. "Fuck. You," he hissed.

Gabriel lifted his hand in the air. "Who here can see the future? Raise your hand! Oh wait. Just me, then?" He let his arm fall, shooting Dean a look of pure dislike. "The future you just suffered through, Dean-y, that's what you can look forward to if you fail again. And, trust me, that's not even the half of it."

Sam winced. He knew the other half.

Dean was shaking his head. "It's not real. It can't be real."

Gabriel sighed dramatically. "You know, _Sam_ didn't whine this much the last time, and I killed you. A lot." Dean flinched and looked away.

"Bite me," Sam snapped. "Don't use me as a weapon in this, you complete _jackass_."

Gabriel's attention moved back to him and then away. He looked pained, which was real rich. Of all the people in the diner, he should be the one enjoying this. This shit was right up his alley.

Dean exhaled shakily. "So, I'm the only one who can save Cas—and the world, huh?"

Recovering whatever undoubtedly sadistic glee he'd lost, Gabriel tilted his head with a wide smile. "Well, look at it this way," he said lazily. "Until you find a way to do both, you'll be stuck in this loop forever. No pressure!" Gabriel tucked his hands in his pockets. "You have all the time in the world."

After a moment of silence, Dean turned abruptly toward their little group, showing his back to Gabriel. "Bobby, get me out of here," he said in an undertone. He looked like he was about to be sick.

Bobby looked alarmed. "Yeah, okay," he said, tucking an arm around Dean's shoulder and leading him to the door. He paused when he noticed Sam hadn't budged. "Sam."

"Gimme a sec."

Bobby made a face, but he acquiesced. Sam stuck his hands in his pockets, watching as Gabriel turned around and picked up his fork again, leaning over his stool to do it.

After several minutes of quiet, Sam said neutrally. "Is this funny to you?"

Gabriel smiled a little, looking over his shoulder. "Told you."

"Told me what?"

He licked strawberry off of his lips. "That you'd hate me."

Sam ducked his head for a moment. He didn't know how much of that was true. Stiltedly, he said, "It's bad enough being caught in a loop. Please restrain from bending reality to amuse yourself."

Gabriel froze. "I want your brother to _succeed_ ," he said earnestly.

The tone, more than anything else, set Sam off. "Bull shit," he snarled. "You're just-" Sam bit down on his lip until he could taste copper. Then, finally, he said, "Whatever." He turned and walked towards the door.

"I'll loop it," Gabriel called out. When Sam looked over his shoulder, he saw that Gabriel's expression was bland and neutral. "Again and again and again, until your stupid brother gets things right."

A memory of Gabriel talking ("... I _mean_ well...") passed through his mind. After a moment, Sam nodded stiffly and walked out of the diner.

It took Sam ten minutes to compose himself enough so he could look at Dean and not have to make up some lie about dust getting in his eyes.

 

\-----

 

Time passed. The only novel experience about the days ahead was Sam's increasing bitterness about their situation.

Dean had been right not to trust Gabriel. Sam had been so easily duped by a few soft words and earnest glances. He allowed himself to believe that Gabriel's role in this was just the burdened protector, the one who kept Castiel off their tail when they needed to lay down and recharge.

There was no denying that he'd fulfilled that particular duty, and thoroughly too, but all of that seemed to be overshadowed by Gabriel's real role in his—the master puppeteer in the background. Which begged the question—how much had Sam been manipulated?

While Sam stewed and brooded over this, trying to find answers, the days passed in that disturbingly duplicate way, the same people, the same conversations. Sam hadn't memorized them yet, so there was only a sense of deja vu—but he would memorize them in time.

If there was one thing Sam could be grateful for, it was that the loop was apparently several days long rather than just one. While it didn't make the prospect of being stuck in the same two or so weeks for all eternity any better, at least there was more variation to be had in hundreds of hours than there was in just twenty-four.

Sam liked to keep in mind the silver linings too.

But the worst thing about it, Sam thought, was dealing with Cas.

He'd shown up soon after they left the diner, probably to ask what they were doing. Dean had made a soft, broken noise and staggered to him, swooping Castiel up in a tight hug. Despite everything that he knew, this still startled Sam—at least, until he remembered that the last Dean saw of him, he'd been watching as Castiel was ripped up by souls of Purgatory.

Then, just as quickly, he jerked away, leaving without another word. This left Sam with the uncomfortable position of dealing with the angel. Pre-Hulked out Castiel reminded Sam more of his friend than of his future enemy, and it hurt when Castiel commented, with an air of confusion, that he'd come to believe that men of a certain age did not engage in hugs. That was probably Sam's fault, now that he thought about it.

Other than that brief moment of unrequited reunion, Dean avoided Castiel like the plague, something that bothered the angel a lot. He stayed away even more than usual, something that made Bobby relieved.

He'd already been suspicious of Castiel. Hearing about their not so distant future only heightened his paranoia—which was good, Sam supposed. Someone should be paranoid of Cas. Dean got too easily distracted and Sam empathized too much. Only Bobby could be trusted to be objective.

Even so, Sam felt like this loop—this second chance to make everything right—was already slipping out of their control. A lot of it had to do with Dean's complete avoidance of anything Cas related—which was ridiculous. Sam wasn't like Gabriel. He didn't think that Dean was the only person who could save the world, but the fact that Gabriel did still left a big impact.

And why did he think that? Why did Gabriel pin so goddamn much on his brother's shoulders?

After Castiel popped in and out to check on Dean, his concerned frown never fading, Sam suddenly had answers to these questions. In a blast of absolutely ridiculous understanding, it occurred to him that Gabriel must be a great believer in the redemptive power of love—or affection or epic bromance or whatever Dean and Cas happened to have.

Sam could have laughed. He could have screamed. Instead, he found himself merely disliking Gabriel's 'strategy'. Sam didn't think Cas needed love. Rather, he thought what Cas really needed was some _tough_ love. Sam could have used some of that years ago—maybe that would have solved a lot of problems.

Sam's actions were his own responsibility, and his alone, but even he played the 'what if' game. If Dean had cracked down on his ass the second he found out what Sam was doing with Ruby… well, the world would have been very different, wouldn't it? Sam would have been resentful and maybe even hateful, but maybe Lucifer wouldn't have risen in the first place.

Instead, Dean tried to be a good brother, tried to be understanding, right up to the very end—at which time, it was way, way too late. Sam was already convinced of the rightness of his path, and no one, not even Dean, could sway him.

When you were stumbling towards the edge of no return, you didn't need acceptance and promises of love. You needed someone to grab you by the back of your goddamn neck and shake you back to reason.

Dean couldn't do that—not with Sam and certainly not with Castiel. And they were running out of time.

A loop ago, this had been the night where they trapped their ally in a ring of flame to discover that he was working with Crowley. This time around, they already knew. Mood soured by the memory of it, Dean sought to crawl down the neck of an alcohol bottle in the bathroom. Bobby was already gone—to where, he didn't share.

That left Sam alone in their rented hotel room, staring at his cell phone.

He was pissed at Gabriel—livid, really. That didn't stop him from tapping out a text.

 _What happens if you die while we're in this loop?_

A response came a moment later. _That's not going to happen._

Sam pressed on with this point. _If Cas finds out what you're doing to Dean, he'll kill you._

Gabriel's response was cheeky. _Which one?_

Sam didn't need to think about it. Every last one of them, from start to finish, would strangle Gabriel for what he was doing to Dean. Sam knew even that sad, mostly powerless Castiel of the distant future would have given it a try.

The door to the bathroom creaked open. Out came Dean with a mournful, tight expression. The cap on his bottle had never been broken. Sam straightened up slightly.

He met Sam's gaze waveringly. "I... I can do this." Sam could hear the doubt in it.

"Then do it. Now." Before he lost his nerve.

As if agreeing with Sam's thought, Dean nodded. His eyes skittered off to the left. "But I need you to go. _Please_."

How could Sam deny him that?


	25. Chapter 25

\-----

 

Chapter Twenty-Five

 

\-----

 

With a pained, understanding smile, Sam left their hotel room, taking his jacket with him. Dean was relieved and kinda ashamed too. He wasn't completely oblivious. He was aware that he'd been treating his brother like crap for quite a bit, and he didn't even have the excuse of a missing soul.

He was so scared he'd get something wrong, that he'd doom Cas, doom Sammy. Being in a time loop should have been freeing—knowing he could fix whatever he'd done wrong the last time—but, instead, it was horrifying.

He couldn't stand doing this over and over again. The thought of the same thing happening again made him feel ill. People had breaking points. Dean was no different. He'd hit it at year thirty in Hell and he'd hit it again in that dorm room in Kansas. And now he was supposed to pick up the pieces of himself and save everybody? _Bull shit_.

Maybe this time he should just let Cas be God. Sure, the possessive/domination trend was disturbing, and a whole hell of a lot of people would lose their rights to be stupid, ignorant humans but, hey, what could go wrong?

Except… well, everything, of course. Dean was fond of free will and, despite his actions, so was Cas. Without the souls clouding his judgment, Castiel would see things Dean's way. He _had_ to.

The air shifted behind him in a familiar way, making his hair stand on end. His prayer hadn't been unheard.

There was silence, and then… "I'm busy."

Dean turned around. Castiel was looking at him with some concern, entirely without the benign contempt of his super powered counterpart. Dean swept his gaze up and down Cas, and then closed his eyes. Dean yearned for him suddenly, because as much as he'd already done, he still hadn't hit that unforgivable point of no return.

Dean opened his eyes, glancing at the generic furniture, the tacky black and red designs. "Yeah, not doing this out here," Dean muttered. He looked at Cas, gesturing at his head with two fingers. "Look, you can jump into my dreams, right? So you can jump into my head." He steeled himself, bracing for impact. "Okay, go."

Castiel wasn't moving. "Dean…"

"I'm waiting," Dean said impatiently.

Castiel sighed heavily, like Dean was asking too much of him as usual. "You need to have a specific place in mind."

"I got one."

The angel was frowning at him. "It has to be very-"

" _I got one_ ," Dean repeated darkly. He scowled. "So are you going to jump into my head already-" Color shifted in his peripheral vision, but it didn't distract him. "-or am I just going to stand here, talking to myself?"

Castiel was looking up and around, then back at him. "Dean?"

Dean tore his gaze away from Castiel. They were standing in his house in Lawrence. They were in the living room, where there was faded green tacky rug over wood floors. A second hand coffee table was lying low in front of a patchy couch that would sooner swallow you then let you sit comfortably. Wallowing a bit in nostalgia, Dean let his hand run over the top of the blue lounge chair closest to him.

God, this felt like _home_.

Castiel was turning slowly, eyes darting all over the room. "I don't recognize this place."

"You wouldn't. It doesn't exist." Dean smiled bitterly, tapping his temple. "Except in here."

"The details…" Castiel breathed, running a hand over the wall. "They're very intricate. Purposefully flawed. They're fascinating." Self-consciously, he glanced back at Dean. "Angels aren't nearly so creative."

"Yeah, that explains a few things," Dean muttered to himself. Even God Cas was impressed by it—by Dean's _stories_.

Castiel stopped turning, facing Dean. "Why am I here?"

"You need to stop. Now." Dean swallowed hard, forcing his chin up. "This is an intervention."

Castiel looked confused. "An intervention for what?"

"That clusterfuck you call a war," Dean said harshly. "You're losing, and in the worst way too."

Castiel's face went neutral, betraying nothing. He looked away. "We have had many victories."

"I don't mean battles, Cas," Dean said desperately, closing the distance between them. "I mean you're losing your freaking _mind_."

Castiel stared up at him blankly. It didn't compute. Dean could tell. Was insanity a foreign concept to angels? Maybe it was. Hell, Lucifer, while batshit crazy, was completely sane. He knew what he was doing.

"I do not understand," Castiel said softly. But that couldn't be exactly true, could it? His expression was slowly darkening, like he was absorbing what Dean was saying and didn't like what he was hearing. Quieter, he said, "I've sacrificed for you. I've died and still, everything I do, I do it to protect you."

Dean's eyes burned. He blinked past it, saying, "I appreciate it. Really, I do. But… Cas. This is going to kill you, one way or another. Please. Just… stop." He clenched his fist, whispering, "I'm begging you here."

"You can't ask this of me, Dean," Castiel said slowly, shaking his head. "You can't ask me to stop fighting."

"I know. But I'm asking anyway. Please, If there's any part of you that-" But then Dean stopped. He couldn't—wouldn't—use Castiel's feelings against him. Not again. Not until he absolutely had to. "Please, just listen."

Castiel just slowly shook his head again. "I'm fighting a war, Dean." He said it harshly, like he thought that Dean had already forgot. "By any means necessary-"

"That's a load of crap and you know it. Take it from a human—some weapons shouldn't be used in wars."

Castiel blinked several times. For the first time, he looked disconcerted. "What are you talking about?"

Castiel was so close to lying there—so very close. Dean bit down on his anger.

Well, he tried to. "I'm talking about the souls, you _dick_." Dean's mouth twisted. "The ones you're planning to _devour_ once you open Purgatory!"

Castiel straightened up slightly. Only Dean would have recognized the move as defensive. "Who have you been talking to?" His eyes narrowed sharply. "Rachel?"

The name seemed familiar, but… "I… don't remember who that is, but… no. I haven't been talking to anyone." Dean paused and then smiled insincerely. "If you must know, I'm stuck in a fucking time loop." He turned away, walking to the mantel over the fireplace. "Over and over again, like a goddamn merry-go round, until _you_ quit turning into Hitler. Or an angelic Hungry, Hungry Hippo—there's not much of a difference." He turned. "Oh yeah, heads up—Gabriel's back."

"Gabriel?" Castiel looked shocked—and suspicious too. "He was… I felt him die."

Dean made a face. "Yeah, well he's back and as fucked up as ever."

"It's a miracle," Castiel said, almost to himself. He turned away, seemingly absorbed by this new bit of information. "But is it a sign?"

Dean snapped his fingers to get his attention. "Dude. I'm _talking_ to you here."

"I'm sorry," Castiel said automatically, turning back to him. "What were you saying?"

"I'm saying stop! Now! Before you break the damn world!" And that was what happened, wasn't it? Sam said the end was worse than the biblical apocalypse, and their very own biblical character didn't disagree.

"What?" Fortunately, he was the bright sort of angel who could connect the dots on his own. He looked incredulous. "That's what you saw in the time loop?"

"Oh yeah. Enemy Numero Uno was you, tough guy."

"That's impossible." Castiel looked wrecked. "My motives are pure."

"Yeah, as pure as the driven tar pit." Castiel shot him a wounded look. Guilt quickly followed. More solicitously, he said, "Look, it's like this. The road to Hell-"

"I know that reference," Castiel snapped coldly.

"Good. Then you know it's true." Dean paused, staring at Castiel's stubborn expression. He took a step closer. "What? Can you really look at me and say the power hasn't gone to your head? Not even a little?"

Castiel couldn't. Instead, he licked his lips, saying, "If I… If I don't take control of the souls of Purgatory…" More strongly, he continued. "If I don't do it, then Raphael will, and, trust me, he will not be so merciful."

"Merciful?" Dean echoed. "Let me reiterate something to you. You. Broke." He paused and then made a sharp circular motion with his hands. "The world. What part of that don't you _get_?"

Castiel stared at him for a moment before he looked away. "I realize that you are upset, Dean." He turned and sank slowly into the couch, raking both hands through his hair as he went. "But I'm having a difficult time… understanding this."

With a sign, Castiel folded his hands in front of his mouth, looking small. But he always looked small to Dean, like he was crammed in a space too tiny to account for the whole of him. Dean remembered, again, that Castiel was basically a foot soldier trying to fill a general's shoes. Everything he'd been doing since Lucifer and Michael went into the Pit was something way out of his experience. He was struggling with it always.

Letting go of his anger, Dean sat down on the table in front of him. After a moment, Castiel's eyes rose, meeting his.

"I'll… I'll give you whatever you want," Dean said resigned.

Castiel leaned back on the couch warily, away from Dean. "What is this?"

Dean smiled tiredly. "Blank check here, buddy. What do you want?"

Castiel stared at him and then, with an aborted, heavy breath, he shoved up from the couch, escaping Dean. Dean slowly rose, watching as Castiel whirled around to face him, his coat flaring out with the option.

"Stop it, Dean," he demanded. His eyes were wide and vulnerable.

Dean ignored him, offering softly. "Do you want me to bow to you?" Castiel flinched badly, backing up. Dean followed him doggedly until Castiel hit the mantel over the fireplace. Dean dropped slowly to both knees as picture frames rocked and fell over the edge, hitting the ground with little crackles of broken glass.

He never took his eyes away from Castiel. "I'll do it. I pledge my love and fealty unto you, my new Lord-"

Castiel's hands suddenly shot out, grabbing his head before he could lower it. "Stop!" he commanded. Dean stared up at him, mesmerized. Castiel looked so unnerved, so bothered by all this.

Dean couldn't help but wonder, then, what the real difference was between the Cas of now and the Cas of the future. He remembered a Castiel who had forced him into this position, who had demanded it of him. It jarred so forcibly with the Cas in front of him, who looked so damn horrified.

What made Cas the way he was in the future? Was it the influence of those souls or was it the consequence of him hitting his own breaking point?

Castiel was shaking his head back and forth. "You…" He licked his lips nervously, the iron grip on Dean's cheek loosening slightly. "You shouldn't worship false idols." His voice sounded very soft and very human in that confined space—in the living room that would never be.

Dean was suddenly angry all over again. "Funny you say that now," he said bitterly. "Let's check back with you in a few days."

Castiel clenched his eyes shut. He hunched his back and leaned over Dean, his head almost brushing against Dean's hair. His eyes flashed open. "I can't…" Somewhere in his panic, in his confusion, Castiel met Dean's eyes. The expression in his friend's gaze was pleading. Up this close, Dean could tell that Castiel's eyes were almost more gray than blue. "I can't deal with this right now, Dean. I'm sorry."

Then he disappeared. Everything disappeared. Castiel's hasty retreat yanked Dean out of that mind space and back into the hotel room, alone. Shaking slightly, Dean staggered over to the bed. He found the edge of it with a hand and sat down. He buried his face in his heads.

 _Fuck_.


	26. Chapter 26

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Chapter Twenty-Six

 

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Dean had texted Sam well over an hour ago, saying that the room was free. Still worried about his brother, Sam had naturally run straight over, but, by the time he got there, Dean was gone.

Sam was disappointed, but he was prepared to give Dean his space. He decided to distract himself by mapping demon patterns and identifying omens. Crowley was a slippery one and they needed whatever information they could get. However, Sam had never been as good at this as Bobby or Ash, so he found himself staring cross eyed at the screen, trying to figure out if a herd of geese crashing into a window was a classic demon omen or a story of absurdly stupid animals.

He took a break around the half-hour mark, calling Bobby. The older hunter had taken off a while ago, citing cryptic reasons. He never told anyone where he was going and, when pressed, only said that a life depended on it.

So Sam checked in on Bobby, updating him while subtly trying to ask if Bobby needed help. He ended the call quickly and with a smile, noting only that Visyak and Bobby must have rekindled whatever connection they once had because Bobby sounded unusually happy.

Hopefully, things stayed that way.

Sam soon had company—unwelcome company that sat on the other chair and propped his feet up on one of the beds. His company chirped his hello, but, if Sam ignored these things, wouldn't they go away? Get bored, leave him alone?

If Sam had been a tad more introspective, he would have realized that he was essentially playing the role of the sullen teenager by giving Gabriel the unholy silent treatment.

That was what Dean walked in on. Sam was busy pretending not to notice Gabriel while Gabriel was pretending not to notice Sam pretending, which led to Sam silently scowling at his laptop, sightless, while Gabriel offered some sort of commentary or stream of consciousness on who was _really_ dating who on the reality show he was watching.

Dean sort of jolted to a stop inside of the door, confused by the setup and alarmed by how quickly both of their attentions jerked back to him. Then he looked mad, which wasn't a new expression on him, especially not nowadays.

"So." Gabriel turned off the television with a dramatic flourish, raising his eyebrows at Dean. "Is the world saved or not?"

Dean stiffened slightly, but that was his only reaction. "Go fly into a ring of holy fire, you flippant asshole," he said without an ounce of emotion in his voice. He walked over to the mini-fridge, opening it with a jerk.

Sam warily looked up from his laptop just in time to see Gabriel rustle his hair with an impatient sigh, the frustration in his voice at odds with his pained expression.

"I guess not." Gabriel made a sharp, aborted gesture with his hand. "Do you even try anymore? Or have you gotten too used to just winging it and hoping for the best?"

Dean slammed the door angrily before whipping around to face Gabriel. He leaned over the angel's chair, his expression truly menacing and, for a moment, he stayed that way, arms locked, face unfriendly, eyes cold. Then, finally, he said softly, "I tried, okay? I gave it everything I had." His eyes darted away suddenly. A moment later, he straightened up, the wrath gone. "I'm done."

"Well, if it isn't a return of Suzy Quits A Lot," Gabriel drawled.

"Don't make me molotov your feathery ass," Dean muttered, but his heart wasn't in it. His eyes darted over to Sam before going back to Gabriel. "I'm going to go out, eat pie, and get drunk-- _more_ drunk, even. And, hopefully, by the time your future rolls around? I'll have already died of alcohol poisoning." He turned around, rubbing the back of his neck tiredly.

Gabriel rose from his chair. "It's a loop, dumbass. Remember?" Dean froze by the door, his hand hovering over the knob. "It doesn't matter if you die. You'll just wake up again in Ervin's diner." A cruel little smile played on Gabriel's lips. "There's no escaping it, no running away. Unless you fix the future, you're going to see it over and over and over again, and who _knows_ how horrible it will be this time."

Dean's jaw worked hard under his skin, but he didn't say a word. He just tipped his head slightly toward Gabriel, as if to acknowledge his statement, and then slammed the door shut behind him.

Sam let out the breath he didn't know he'd been holding, relaxing all the muscles he didn't know he'd been tensing. He shot a look at Gabriel, who was slowly lowering himself back into the chair.

Sam broke the silence, speaking his first words to Gabriel since the diner, and they weren't kind ones. "Do you delight in being a prick?"

"Sam…" Gabriel rolled his head back with a little scoffing noise, and then looked at Sam under lowered eyebrows. "Dean's the golden ticket here. He's our way out of the end of the world. That's no small thing."

Sam stared at him, then closed his laptop with a snap. He rubbed at his forehead, groaning. "God, you're so… stupid."

Gabriel idly tapped the tips of his fingers along the arm of his chair. "You do remember I can smite you, right?"

Sam did, actually, and that was the only reason why he tried to be patient about this. "Have you ever considered that maybe, just maybe, you're the golden ticket out of the new apocalypse?"

Gabriel was silent for a moment. Then he lifted his chin. "How do you figure?" His expression told Sam that Gabriel was only humoring him because there was nothing good on the television.

"You were in the loop too. You heard what Chuck said."

Gabriel rolled his head back dramatically again, sighing loudly. "Look, I get it. You'd like to think God's still around, even in the future, and that He's still talking through the prophet. Whatever, I'm not going to trample all over your faith." Gabriel sat up quickly, tension in every movement. "But what you don't realize is that I'm the one in control here. I'm the one who's the _teacher_ , not you, not Chuck, and certainly not that muscle bound idiot you called a brother!"

Sam stopped himself from snorting, but just barely. Instead, he poured on the innocence. "Can't the teacher learn from his own lesson plan?" Sam widened his eyes. "I've heard from reliable sources that God works in mysterious ways."

Gabriel stared at him incredulously, mouth hanging. When he finally found the words, his eyebrows snapped together. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" His voice rose at the end somewhat comically, but Sam was hardly in the mood for laughing.

Sam leaned forward sharply. "It means you're an archangel, not a paper weight!" he snapped. After a moment, he gestured at Gabriel impatiently. "You've got wings and a mouth. Go talk to Cas yourself! You think you've got no input in this besides bullying Dean around? Come _on_! You have more power in this than you realize."

Gabriel crossed his arms over his chest, nodding in a condescending way. "Of course. I should have expected this from you. Why are you always _so_ determined to save your brother from his own messes?"

"Why are you always so determined to shove responsibility on other people?"

"You are on _thin ice_ , Sam," Gabriel said warningly, his voice whisper-soft. He looked pissed off and every inch of the warrior from the Bible—the kind that killed humans for less reasons than Sam was giving him.

But there was something else there too. Sam tilted his head slightly, musing over it. He said, without thought, "Why are you so afraid?"

Gabriel went still—predator still. After a moment of silence, Sam sat back in his chair, wondering if he'd just crossed a line. The only thing comforting him was that Gabriel was hardly getting his smite on. Instead, his eyes were fixated on his own hands.

"He's not gonna listen to me." His voice was very small all of a sudden. His eyes jerked up and he looked horribly uncertain. "Why would he? I'm the one who ran away."

Sam stared at him for a moment. Then he was up off the chair and crossing the room, dropping to a knee in front of Gabriel. And Sam was angry at him—still angry, he swore to God. Even so, he found himself reaching out, curling his fingers around Gabriel's wrist.

"Then don't talk. Show." Gabriel seemed to clasp in on himself a bit, his shoulders curling inward. Sam tightened his grip. Gabriel twisted his arm slightly, but not to go. His fingers started playing with the button on Sam's sleeve while his eyes focused on something on the ground.

Sam found himself talking speaking quietly. "You know, the Cas from the future—the far future, I mean. I, um. I felt a lot of empathy for him. Not just for his loneliness, but for his situation. How he… dug his own grave, basically." Gabriel was gazing at him quietly. Self-conscious, Sam shrugged, but he didn't look away. "When you're hopped up on your own power and importance, talking is shit. It's just noise, and everyone, no matter how articulate, is wrong, wrong, _wrong_."

There was a world's worth of similarities between Castiel's mistakes and his own, but Sam was hardly in the mood to expound upon them all. They were bad memories to start with and they all had that insidious curl of 'what if' locked within them. Sam decided to focus on the most important things—the basic elements of comparison that held true both in Sam's life and in Castiel's.

Sam settled back on his heels, smiling a little "I love my brother, Gabriel. I've gone to Hell for him, and I would go back too. I would do _anything_ for him." His smile fell. "But when he begged me to stop, I didn't. And I can't help but think..." Sam paused, making a face. "If someone had _shown_ me what I'd become, what would happen once I killed Lilith, I…" He shook his head. "I would have stopped drinking demon blood. I would have locked myself into Bobby's panic room until the pangs went away. Then I would have ganked Ruby myself and stayed way the hell away from Lilith." Sam let out a shaky sigh. "But all Dean had for me were words and dark predictions and…" He shrugged. "Faith's kinda hard to have nowadays. Even if it's just faith in him."

For a long time, Gabriel didn't move. And then, slowly, he lifted his free hand, placing it over the fingers that were still locked in the material of his jacket. His fingers were warm.

"It's not going to work," Gabriel said gently, earnestly. "I'm not meant to be an agent of change."

Sam considered this for a moment before shaking his head once, sharply. "Tough shit," he said apologetically. "Dean Winchester's not meant to be a god killer." He fiddled with a cut in his jeans, avoiding Gabriel's eyes. "Just try."

There were silences, and then there were _silences_. One was natural—a lull in conversations—while the other was just awkward. _This_ was awkward. Words flew to his throat and disappeared almost as quickly. It was the sort of silence where breaking it felt almost as bad as letting it move forward.

Sam doubted himself. He raged. He stayed still. His knees started to complain—he still didn't move.

Then, exhaling sharply, Gabriel threw himself out of the chair, flying limbs barely missing Sam. He paced back and forth a few times agitatedly. He stopped mid-step. He looked angry. He looked resigned. He rolled his head up to the ceiling, groaning loudly.

" _Damn it_." Gabriel spun around, pointing at Sam. Sam froze. "If I die, this time? It's _really_ your fault."

With a tight, determined expression on his face, Gabriel lifted a hand and snapped his fingers. He disappeared.

Sam stayed still for another five seconds before getting up and sliding into Gabriel's chair. All he could do now was hope he didn't just send Gabriel into his own grave… again.


	27. Chapter 27

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Chapter Twenty-Seven

 

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The Winchesters were no strangers to waiting games, so it was with grim resignation that they both waited out the eclipse. They didn't run towards it like lemmings this time, but they waited for, watching for hints and clues that the world they loved was about to crash down around them.

The only hope Sam could offer his brother was Bobby's assurance that Visyak was still alright and with him. It wasn't much of a hope. It was unlikely, but there could have been other natives to capture and bleed out.

So, still, they waited.

Nothing happened. Or, at the very least, they _thought_ maybe nothing happened. Rivers didn't turn red. Lucifer didn't show up. People didn't eat each other in a frenzy. Angels didn't appear on major news networks to fish for followers.

It _seemed_ like everything was normal, but how could they know? They were so removed from the action this time around. It was hard to gauge these things when you weren't standing on the front lines.

Dean was drinking again, a little more as each night of _nothing_ passed. Worried that it was starting to become a crutch, Sam tried to talk him out of it.

"The loop's gonna start all over again, Sam," Dean said, viciously ripping the bottle back out of Sam's hand. "Any fucking day now." He finished this announcement with a long pull at the bottle.

Sam didn't have the heart to try and stop him again.

Any day now was horribly imprecise, and Dean was feeling the stress of it. Every morning had to feel terrible, not knowing if the loop was going to rest that day or not. Sam himself was constantly on edge, and he wasn't nearly as emotionally involved in all of this as Dean was.

Sure, he didn't want the world to end, but, hell, he wasn't the one who all of this was riding on, after all. He wasn't the one with a profound bond with the person who may or may not end the world.

No, Sam thought his only role in this was to get Dean through each time loop. His main weapons here were words and reassurances, but he was doing poorly with both, especially with the latter of the two.

He wished he could give Dean a deadline to look forward to. Such a thing would only help Dean focus. However, Sam couldn't even give him that. His previous experience with time loops wasn't helpful. None of his Tuesdays ever ended at the same time and he sure as hell never made it to midnight.

Without any firm answers or promises, Sam could only distract Dean from the waiting. He found them a hunt in South Dakota. A newly constructed bed and breakfast was reporting some kind of ghost activity. They hadn't opened to the public yet, but ten employees had already quit. The owner of the place, a harassed octogenarian who was apparently a friend of a friend of Bobby's, had asked for their help—or Bobby's, in particular, but Bobby was busy.

It took them only half a day to realize that Nancy—their feisty hostess—didn't have a ghost problem. Rather, she had a rather severe issue with the new plumbing. The sub-par contractor had left her with bad pipes made of crappy material that tended to shake and burst.

Nothing had burst yet, but the 'ghostly' groaning and moaning had been the muffled sound of metal shaking and banging into things.

Sam had never seen anyone quite as happy as Nancy in the throes of suing the hell out of the company. Meanwhile, while she got the plumbing fixed in the residential side of her establishment, Nancy came to them separately, asking if they would mind sticking around and handling some of the jobs—just until she hired more employees, she insisted.

Hearing that Dean had agreed, Sam was surprised. He took her up on her offer. Both of them were shuffled off to the restaurant/bar part of her business, which was still opening on schedule since neither of those were affected by the bad plumbing.

Paradoxically, once set behind the bar with all the alcohol he could want, Dean abruptly started drinking less.

"The smell of it gets to me after a while," he admitted. "Plus, I feel no urgent need to join the drunk asshole clique in front of me when I'm on the job."

Sam made the observation that, had they lived normal lives, Dean would have been quite the worker bee in the monotonous, non-demon infested work world. Dean told him to fuck off.

Sam only smiled. They were getting back to normal.

But things were still not normal—this, Sam never forgot. So Sam wasn't really surprised when, on the second day of work, he found himself seating a brazenly casual archangel in one of his sections.

As Sam fumbled with his notepad, as warring questions ran through his brain (what, when, how?), he became aware of a conflicted sense of relief, delight, and dread. So Gabriel wasn't dead after all.

It felt like a huge weight had been lifted off his shoulders—the guilt, the worry, the silence. Sam couldn't talk about his concern about Gabriel when his brother was imagining slowly eviscerating the angel with a knife coated in holy oil.

And, yet, despite his worry, he got where Dean was coming from too. Everything Gabriel had thrown on their shoulders was so completely unfair—and, yeah, maybe necessary, but did he have to do it the way he did? Did he have to go incommunicado and leave them hanging like this, doubting if the next day would truly be the next or rather the first?

So Sam stood there and found himself struggling between distinct pleasure and terrible anger. He unsteadily settled somewhere in the middle, the plastic menu bending in his grip.

Gabriel was smirking up at him. "What did the menu ever do to you?"

"Menu?" Sam looked down at it, wincing at the visible crease. Then, he tossed it in front of Gabriel, shrugging forced casualness. "Nothing. This douchey archangel, on the other hand..."

Gabriel ducked his head, sheepish. "Alright, alright." He rolled his eyes. "Sorry. Should have called."

He didn't sound nearly sorry enough, but Sam let it slide. He had more important things to think about. "Are we still in a loop or what?"

Gabriel shot him an innocent look. "What about my order?" Sam's death glare wasn't quite on par with Dean's, but, damn it, he tried. Gabriel rolled his eyes. "No." Gabriel sighed, repeating, "No. There's no way I could have kept you two in a loop while Castiel was in the know. He's powered up quite a bit since I saw him last. Still not strong enough to take on me but... it'd be one hell of a fight- Hey, isn't that a tad unprofessional? No tip for you."

Sam ignored him, fingers flying over his phone's keyboard. Under Gabriel's amused eye, he texted Dean this update—the sooner he knew, the better.

Meanwhile, he said cautiously, "So you talked."

"Played Show and Tell," Gabriel said distantly, shaking out the menu. "To start, I think I want a hot chocolate—extra whipped cream, extra marshmallows."

Sam ignored that too. "What happened?"

Gabriel paused and then looked up at Sam. "The teacher learned from his student, apparently." He wagged his eyebrows playfully. "And the student was a better teacher."

Sam frowned, putting his phone away. "So... which of these people is Cas supposed to be, again?"

"Neither." Dropping the menu, Gabriel rubbed his hair briskly. It stood slightly on end. He looked really out of his depth and uncomfortable all of a sudden. After the week of hell he'd given them, though, Sam found it hard to feel sympathetic. "I was so sure I knew how to get Cas to stop. I was so sure I understood _everything_ , that I could manipulate certain things, certain people, and make everything turn out alright."

Sam's cell beeped in his pocket. He pulled it out and glanced down, seeing that Dean had given him a concise and a rather drastic understatement of his real feelings on the matter.

 _Thank fuck._

Sam tucked his phone back in his pocket and then said, rather unkindly, "You're not very good at being sneaky and underhanded."

"I take offense at that," Gabriel said, scowling at him. "I've just lost my touch. That's all."

"Or maybe the things that matter more to you require more than just _your touch_ ," Sam said acidly. He faked a smile. "I'll get you your drink."

He hadn't gotten more than three steps away when Gabriel called out to him. His voice raised waveringly in the mostly empty second. "I've taken over Castiel's position in this war." When Sam looked back, shocked, Gabriel just shrugged. "I had to. For him and... everyone else."

Sam stayed there for a moment, frozen, before coming to a decision. "Gimme a second," he said, yanking at his apron.

He walked back to the kitchen and had a heart to heart with his manager. Ten minutes later, he walked back to the table with Gabriel's hot chocolate and a container of marshmallows in his hands. He set it down in front of him before sliding into the other side of the booth. He nudged the mug toward Gabriel expectantly.

It was probably a reflection of Gabriel's state of mind that he didn't even touch the sweets in front of him. He was staring at the table, tracing a grain in the wood with his thumb.

"I didn't want to be a leader in this," Gabriel mumbled. "I didn't even want to be _involved_."

Sam didn't pretend he didn't know what he was talking about. "That makes you the best person for the job, doesn't it?"

"Conventional human wisdom," Gabriel said derisively, like it was a bad thing. He sighed and looked out the window. The early morning sun shone off of cars and glass, throwing light back in his face. Where most people would blink and avert their eyes, Gabriel continued to look, his pupils barely reacting.

"It's not a favor, is it?" Sam said quietly, trying to figure Gabriel out. "Cas didn't bring you back. He didn't have the juice." Gabriel tensed. Sam knew he was on to something. "Who brought you back?"

"I don't know," he muttered. "I just... I just showed up in the middle of a freeway, like I never even left." He glanced at Sam for a moment. "Vessel intact and everything. Sam, I still had candy wrappers in my pockets." He looked back out the window, expression bothered. "There's only one being I know with that kind of power, and He ain't talking. _Still_."

"You think He noticed Cas wasn't doing so well?" Sam asked, frowning. "You think He wanted you to take over."

Gabriel glared at him. "I don't know what He wanted, and I don't _care_ ," he spat agitatedly. "I took over because I was the one who deemed it necessary, not Him!" He rolled his eyes at Sam's startled expression. "What? We have free will too, damn it." His mouth twisted and he said sarcastically, "Just don't tell the peons. That's war making talk right there. Have you _seen_ Castiel?"

"You don't believe that."

Gabriel stared at him for a moment longer before sighing. "No. No, I don't. But Raph does and, for a lot of angels, what Raph says, goes." He looked off towards the window again, his expression kind of miserable and angry. He was entitled. He'd jumped way out of the way of one fratricide show only to jump right into another. Just because he had a million brothers didn't mean he was any more willing to kill one of them than Sam was willing to kill Dean or Adam.

Continuing tiredly, Gabriel said, "I don't know how this is gonna play out. Don't have the juice right now to go and take a look." He rubbed his knuckles against against his jaw. "As far as I can tell, though, the fight's at a stalemate. Raph doesn't want the bad PR inherent in going after the Messenger of God. But the stalemate isn't going to last. There's still going to be a fight."

Sam watched his profile carefully. "We'll deal with it."

Gabriel's eyes flicked away from the window. "Raph might take the fight down to Earth."

"We'll deal with it," Sam said more firmly. Bothered by the expression on Gabriel's face, he nudged his knee with his own. "Raphael isn't the first jerky archangel we've had to deal with." He paused for effect. "Present company excluded, of course."

"Oh, a promotion." Gabriel shot him a cheeky smile. "My second in a week. From jerky to tolerable. Nice."

There was a comfortable lull in the conversation then. Gabriel lifted his drink and started sipping from it, turning his attention back out the window. Only when he had drained a third of it down did he start adding marshmallows.

When Gabriel tipped the container into the drink for the third time, Sam started to hope his manager didn't expect to see any of them back.

After a moment longer, Sam found himself trying to think of something to say. Although the quiet between them was comfortable, there was glum sort of undertone to it all.

"We'll get through this," Sam said finally. He crossed his arms over the top of the table. "It's not like we have any other choice."

Gabriel's attention moved back to him. "Now, that's a motto to live by." With a small genuine smile, he lifted his mug to Sam. "Cheers."

"Cheers." After a moment, Sam leaned forward. He paused delicately, and then said, "If you ever trap me in a time loop again, _I will end you_." Sam locked eyes with Gabriel then, making it absolutely clear that Sam was dead serious about this.

Despite that, Gabriel smirked. He licked the whipped cream off of his lip. "Duly noted." Under the table, his foot hooked around the back of Sam's ankle possessively.

Sam ducked his head and, finally, let himself smile.


	28. Chapter 28

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Epilogue

 

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Dean was in the bar. It wouldn't open for another few hours, so he was cleaning up in preparation for the masses—wiping down tables, cleaning glasses, checking out the inventory. He only had a partial shift tonight and was planning on wheedling his way out even earlier.

He had some _celebrating_ to do, damn it, and he was going to drag Sammy along with him even if he kicked and screamed. But he had to do it in some way to ease Sam's delicate sensibilities. If Dean felt a little twitchy about having fun when everything was so uncertain, then Sam was going to have kittens, and that was just not _on_.

Who knew what was going to happen in the future? The point here was that they were out of the freaking loop. Now _that_ was something worth celebrating. Dean wanted to take Sam out to go eat something meaty and expensive, just to show his appreciation for Sam's steadfastness.

There had been a time in their lives where Dean couldn't trust Sam to stay loyal, let alone near. Now, it was one of the few things Dean could count on. Call it codependent or whatever you wanted, but all Dean knew was Sam stuck around even when everyone else would have left.

He owed Sam in ways he couldn't begin to quantify. The least he could do was take the guy out and show him a good time.

All this, he thought while cleaning up behind the bar, so it was behind that bar that Dean looked up and noticed he was no longer alone.

"Oh," Dean breathed. Self-consciously, he wiped his hands off on a rag. "Hey."

Castiel looked up from the floor. "Dean."

There was an awkwardly long pause.

"Want some whiskey?" Dean offered. He lifted a bottle, smiling. "Some good ole Jager?"

Castiel ignored his evasion. His expression immediately pulled into a concerned frown. He stepped close to the bar, pressing both of his hands against it. Dean bit down a complaint—he'd just cleaned that.

Castiel's voice, when it came, was deep and mournful. "Gabriel revealed to me the contents of your previous loop." There was shame there, but a little bit of anticipation too. "All of the contents."

"Well." Dean turned away, all too aware of his heart doing double time in his chest. "Dude's kind of a dick. You ever notice?"

Behind him, he heard a sigh. "Dean-"

"I _told_ you and it-" Dean sucked in a breath, closing his eyes. Once he had control of himself, he opened his eyes and turned back around. "Whatever. I don't care." He flipped over two glasses, filling them half-way.

Was it too much to ask to have people trust him when he said things? Jesus Christ. He didn't just talk for his health, you know.

"I'm sorry." Dean glanced up. Damn it, Cas _looked_ sorry too. He was looking anywhere but at Dean, frowning. "I had to see it. Faith... it doesn't come easily to me anymore."

"Preaching to the choir," Dean reminded Cas tersely, shoving a glass in his direction. He leaned back, bracing his weight against one of the low shelves. After a moment, he gestured with his own drink. "So. What did you do? Insist you were still right? That your path was still _just_?"

Castiel met his eyes, looking pained. "That was my pride speaking." He looked away for a moment, like seeing Dean's anger was hurting him. Then he was visibly steeling himself, fixing steady eyes on Dean. "As yours is now."

Dean set his glass aside purposely, leaning against the bar. This brought their faces very close. "Excuse me?" he said softly, dangerously.

Castiel's expression didn't waver. "You are... _annoyed_ that Gabriel would reveal the extent of your feelings for me."

Dean stared at him in abject horror for a moment before letting out a soft, broken little laugh. He licked his lips and nodded twice. "He knew too. Future Cas, I mean." Dean smiled thinly. "Don't worry, you'll figure out how to deal with my _mushy feelings_. He did. Of course, I never figured out if he said-" Dean grimaced. "If he said _what he said_ because it was the truth or... Or because it was an easy way to control the stupid human in his charge." He smiled again, the expression almost hurting. "Hopefully, you'll come up with a better way to deal with it."

Castiel lurched forward slightly, his fingers grazing Dean's arm. "Dean, that's not... I would never-"

"Cas," Dean interrupted in a hard voice. Very slowly, he pulled back until Castiel's hand was no longer on him. Castiel blinked at the rejection and then seemed to distance himself, hurling his mind a thousand miles away.

Dean found himself shrugging apologetically, but overall standing his ground. "I don't want to be the kind of guy who blames you for something you may or may not do in the future," Dean said tiredly. "Really, I don't. But here's the thing you gotta understand." He licked his lips, shifted his weight, and then pointed a finger at Castiel, barely holding on to his temper. "You, future you? The controlling, _heartless_ , bastard of a douchebag we all had to deal with? That wasn't you in five years or thirty. That was you, starting three days ago." Dean let out a sharp breath and shook his head at Castiel. "And maybe his origin story is different now, maybe God Cas doesn't exist anymore, but you... you've already done so much shady shit. I don't know if I can trust you anymore. Hell, I don't know if I even want you in my _life_."

After a moment of ringing silence, Castiel dropped his gaze. He nodded slowly. "I understand," he said softly. "I have much penance to do. I'm... I am truly sorry." Castiel nodded once, backing away from the bar. He turned around, heading for the door as Dean watched.

It could really be this easy, Dean realized. He could tell Castiel to leave, and he would. Dean would never have to see him again, never have to deal with his bullshit again—the late night calls, the need to know radio silence, the cryptic conversations. He could rid of Castiel forever.

But he'd already had that, didn't he? He already lived in a world without a Castiel and he despised every damn minute of it, even when he smiled and told himself that everything was okay.

Dean always missed Cas when he was gone.

"Wait," Dean said hoarsely. "Wait." He rounded the bar, shrugging carelessly as he closed the distance between the two of them, desperately pleased that Castiel had stopped for him. Wary eyes rose and met his own.

Dean spoke quickly, pressing his hand against his heart. He shot Castiel a sheepish little smile. "I've really got no moral high ground here, if you think about it. I've jump started the apocalypse. I've broken laws. I've hurt people. If you knew how many demons I had a hand in shaping..." Nauseated at the thought, Dean shook his head.

Castiel was already protesting. "That wasn't your-"

Dean grabbed Castiel's hand. The touch shut him up like nothing else would. Dean smiled faintly. "Let me finish." He swallowed, and then said, "People do dumb shit and angels? As much as you guys like to be high and holy, you're no exception." Dean ducked his head, avoiding Castiel's eyes. "There's always... something you can do. To make up for it, I mean." Dean met Castiel's eyes meaningfully. "Even when you've done really epically dumb shit." And then, quieter, he said, "I should know." Even quieter, he admitted, "I'd like to trust you again."

Castiel stared at him with a wide eyed, doubting look before he was huffing out a small laugh. Dean was reminded of the future Cas then—not the god, but the human. Flawed, wrecked, wrung out and left to dry, like he was at the end of his rope with no where to go. They won—they all won in the end—but Cas seemed defeated, like his life was without purpose.

Castiel was watching him under heavy lidded eyes. "Where should I start?" There was deep resignation in his words, but, for a moment, his fingers tightened around Dean's.

Everything would be alright. Eventually, anyway.

"Well." Dean pulled his hand away from Castiel's, surprised at how quickly he missed it. He threw on a jovial smile and retreated for a moment to fetch their drinks. "You can start by having a drink with me and telling me exactly how much damage control me and Sam are gonna have to do over this Crowley bullshit." He steered them both to a table. Castiel didn't resist.

"You know about that?" His voice was small and ashamed, like he'd rather nothing more than that Dean didn't know anything about him and Crowley.

"I know a lot of things," Dean muttered, not too happy about it. When Castiel looked back at him with a worried frown, Dean just shrugged.

But, you know, it wasn't so bad. Knowing too much was better than knowing nothing. In this case, knowing too much brought Cas back to them.

Well, that and a pushy, meddling archangel that Dean may or may not forgive in a year—give or take fifty.

When he thought about it that way, Dean didn't even have to force a smile. Cautiously content, he patted Castiel's back companionably, saying, "Drink up, Cas. We got work to do."

THE END 


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